Technical Assistance
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: Alternate universe. *Felicity Smoak swore she'd provide technical assistance to all who need it. She's just not prepared for her newest client.* A story that shows another way Felicity and Oliver could have met. Each chapter contains a bonus scene at the end. Olicity undertones, with a definite slow burn. Originally started as a one-shot of the same name.
1. Data Retrieval

**_Technical Assistance_**

**Chapter: 1 - Data Retrieval**  
**Word Count: 3241**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Arrow, I would be writing screenplays, not AU fanfiction.**

**Notes:** I honestly have no idea what happened. I had a conversation with PhantomPhoenix, and ended up giving myself a prompt with this. I liked the idea so much that I couldn't get to sleep last night for thinking about it, and now I've been working on it all day. I'm not sure yet if I'm going to continue this-or, if I do, _when_ I'm going to continue it. Little Talks and Talkative are still my priorities, but I had to get this out of my head. I'll let you draw your own conclusions about it. Any reviews are appreciated, but thanks for reading, too! :)

This is very raw, as I just finished it, so please let me know of any typos you see. Thanks in advance.

And also, two references in this one. Like always, virtual hugs and/or cookies to anyone who can find them. :)

* * *

Felicity Smoak sighs as she waits for the coffee pot to fill with glorious, delicious nectar of the gods, her previous caffeine high already starting to wane and the fatigue setting in. Despite that, she still has a ton of work to do—those diagnostic reports aren't going to file themselves, after all—and she knows this is going to be an all-nighter of a job. It just serves to remind her what happens when none of your colleagues—or your boss, for that matter—is worth the paper their paychecks are printed on.

Despite the inter-office politics, Felicity finds that she likes her job at Queen Consolidated. The IT department has only the best technology and equipment, and the work is challenging enough to really test her abilities. But, like all good careers, there are some downfalls to the position. For now, she considers that to be the paperwork and the long hours. After all, a programmer's job is never done, and Felicity has never liked leaving loose ends. She checks her watch and her worst fears are confirmed: it's half-past eleven, and she's not making as much progress as she'd like. She sighs again as she realizes it will probably be another two-hours-of-sleep night. They might as well plug her up to a coffee IV by the time this week is over.

She fills up her favorite mug to the rim with coffee, the one that shows her problematic addiction to television shows. It's red, but the text on it is blue and reads, "Drink at once if convenient. If inconvenient, drink anyway. (Could be dangerous.)" It's the mug she always has to explain, but it's still her favorite. She starts to leave, but then realizes no one else is in the building. In a rare act of defiance, she grabs the coffee pot and takes it with her back to her office. She doesn't have time to go back to the kitchen for coffee every time her cup runs empty.

It's a decent walk from the kitchen to the Satan Pit (as she lovingly calls the IT department), and she's more grateful than ever that she decided to wear sensible shoes to work today. The panda flats aren't just cute—they're _comfortable_. She has to hold back a high-pitched, dignity-shredding scream as she turns the corner to her cubicle and sees someone that most certainly doesn't work at QC sitting at her station, using her computer. At least, she's _pretty_ sure he doesn't work there, but it's impossible to tell with that emerald green hood hanging over his head, masking her features. The first thing she thinks is that he wears the tight green leather surprisingly well, but then she shakes her head as she realizes that the _Starling City Vigilante_ is sitting at her computer. It _is_ the closest station to the now-open window, but _still_, what are the odds?

Finally, she finds her voice—at about the same time that her anger overrides her common sense. "Hey," she snaps, a little too loud, and his head turns toward her, "did you ever stop to think that maybe that computer _belongs_ to someone—and that it _isn't_ just there for your own personal use? Seriously, if you're going to hijack a computer, at least have the common sense to go to the CEO's office, where you'll have more access. And, by the way, I _happened_ to be working on something before I left—and you better _not_ have closed out of my programs. And, by the way, if you've messed with the height adjustments on my chair, I swear I won't be held responsible for my actions."

He vacates the chair immediately in alarm, pulling his bow in one swift, fluid motion to aim it. Felicity ignores it, setting the coffee pot and mug down on her desk. "You're really going to shoot me?" she asks after turning toward him. "Seriously? I'm not armed and, well even if I was, I wouldn't be a match for _you_." She motions to his very clearly defined muscles and over six feet in height, and then to her own sixty-nine inches. "But, hey, if you're going to kill me, do it now, _before_ I have to watch you destroy my computer systems."

He releases the bow instantly. "You're not on the list," he says flatly, in a synthetically deep, robotic tone. He's clearly using a voice modulator, which shows a little more competence with technology than Felicity has dared hope for. Best case scenario: her computers might actually be intact after an encounter with him, which is definitely a plus.

She waves him away from her computers as she tries to assess the state of her computers, still flustered by the encounter. "What list?" she asks, crossing her arms. "Like, for Christmas? I'm Jewish, so I never really got the whole Santa Claus thing. I mean, I _get_ the Santa Claus thing, but I never really thought there was any balance to the whole situation. If Santa brings present to the good boys and girls, what happens to the bad ones? Is that who you are—like, some sort of anti-Claus who doles out punishments to the bad kids?" It takes her a minute to realize what she said, and then she groans. "Okay, I'm going to stop talking now."

It might be her imagination, but she thinks she _might_ see the corners of his mouth tilt upward. "What's your name?" he asks, his tone indecipherable behind that voice modulator. Combined with the masked facial features underneath the hood, he really makes himself out to be quite an enigma. She doesn't like being unable to read people—especially not people with murderous intent.

She frowns, looking toward her desk to avoid the question. She doesn't really want to tell a murderer her name, but she also doesn't want to find herself impaled on an arrow in the next few minutes. She lets out a cry of horror as her eyes land on a battered laptop plugged into her computer, and she can feel her blood boil.

Without any thought toward self-preservation, she walks up to him and pokes him in the shoulder. "I _know_ you didn't plug an unidentified laptop into one of _my_ computers and potentially risk infecting _my_ babies with horrible, crippling viruses." She realizes how foolish she's being and steps away from him, practically running back to her desk. She's relieved when she finds that the seat adjustments have not been moved, and she examines the computer for a moment, with its massive bullet holes and damage that can't be undone. "What did you do, use it for target practice?"

"There was an altercation," is the only response the Vigilante offers, studying her carefully, as if he's afraid she's suddenly going to take the laptop and run.

She sets it down on the desk, flipping the laptop over and studying the different compartments. She doesn't know what compels her to be so charitable to a man who runs around shooting arrows into targets and sitting in other people's computer chairs, but she finally says, "I'll have to take a better look at this hard drive, but I should be able to tell you exactly what's on it. The compartment seems to be bullet-free, but the other bullets could have jarred it. Computer parts are sensitive, you know, so if anything is loose in there, it could mean the whole thing is shot."

She focuses on tearing the hard drive disk out of the laptop with her trusty screwdriver, so she can't see his face as he asks, "_What?_"

She turns to glance at him for a minute, rolling her eyes. "Oh, come on. You wouldn't be in the IT department if you didn't need some sort of information off of this hard drive. Tell me what you're looking for, and I'll retrieve it for you before you blow up the entire network with your incompetency—which I would have to replace, by the way. So, really, I'm doing _myself_ a favor." She waves a hand toward another wheeled chair on the other side of the area. "Have a seat. This could take a while."

He does as she asks, watching her work with the careful observance of one who has depended on his eyes for his survival. He's at least a little less intimidating when he's sitting in a chair at her station, and she's thankful for the distraction of the computer. After a very long moment of silence, he decides to randomly ask her, "Do you think you have enough coffee?"

Her cup is almost empty by this point, so she makes a point by filling it before answering, "Probably not. I'm running on two hours of sleep, and coffee is solely responsible for my waking state right now." She tilts her head to the side. "Do you _really_ want to talk about coffee right now?" She doesn't wait for the answer before completely removing the hard drive.

"No, not really," he admits. She waits for him to clarify, but he doesn't. Instead, he offers a change in topic: "Are you going to tell me your name?"

She rolls her eyes. "Well, now that I know you're not going to kill me, I'm Felicity Smoak. IT nerd extraordinaire, at your service." She pauses in speech, her brain too focused on plugging the new slave drive into her computer. "Since we're doing introductions, do you have a name or a... _handle_, or something? I know you have a real name, too, obviously, but I know better than to ask you for it."

He seems to think about that for a moment. "Arrow," he says finally as she starts a virus scan on the disk. "That's what the papers have been calling me recently."

Felicity groans at him. "Really? That's the best you can come up with? Well, _that's_ really original and meaningful." She rolls her eyes at his sudden turn of lameness. "I bet you're the kind of guy who calls his dog Woof."

He makes a sound akin to a snort, and Felicity thinks it might actually be some semblance of a laugh. Before she can ask, the laptop's data appears in a window on her own computer, and she sorts through it. "So, do you want to tell me what you're looking for, specifically? There's over five hundred gigs of data here, and chances are whatever you're trying to stop will have already happened by the time we sort through all of it."

The Arrow stays silent for a minute, but finally says, "This laptop was retrieved from Floyd Lawton, an assassin known to Interpol as Deadshot. He's after a target here in Starling City, and I want to know when and where."

"Well, that's really helpful," she mutters sarcastically as she sifts through the most recent file data. She absently clicks the JPEG file, thinking it might give her a target. Instead, it seems to be building blueprints. She studies them before giving him what little she can. "It looks like blueprints for the Exchange Building, where the Unidac Industries auction is set to take place. Mr. Steele is actually going to be bidding on it, too—that's why I know anything at all about this."

"Can you tell who offered Lawton the contract?" he asks now, rising from his seat to lean over her shoulder.

Felicity sighs, trying to sift through bank account information on the drive. She finally finds a very recent payment into a bank account in the Caymans, and she clicks the information button. "Looks like Mr. Lawton just received a very..." She trails off as she sees the sum. "Oh, holy cheese fries, thatis a _lot_ of zeroes." The Vigilante shifts next to her and she finally remembers the point of the conversation. "Well, the point is, the money was transferred from a Starling City Bank account registered to the Halstead Corporation. And what's more impressive is that there's still money in the account after that." A few illegal hacks later, she's able to tell him, "The transfer of funds was authorized by their CEO, Warren Patel. Looks like that's the man you need to see about a dog."

She jumps about a foot in the air when the Arrow's hand falls on her shoulder. "Thank you, Felicity," he says with something that sounds very much like sincerity. "But I need to ask you another favor."

She crosses her arms before swiveling in her chair to look at him. "Just for the record? I am _not_ jumping out of windows or crippling security systems for you. The hacks were clean, and I don't mind doing that to help catch a creepy assassin wanted by Interpol, but I'm not going to jail for you." She looks him over again. "No matter what you look like in green leather—or how well the mysterious persona and bad-boy vibe work for you." Once her mind catches up to her words, she silently prays for the floor to give way and the building to swallow her up.

She swears there's a laugh in his voice as he replies, "Good to know, but that wasn't what I was going to ask." He motions to the computer. "Could you possibly put that computer back together and give it to Detective Lance at SCPD? I'm going to need help on this one."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Detective Lance?" she questions. "The one whose face is splattered all over the news because he's—oh, that's _right_—charged with arresting you?" Her voice is two octaves too high by the end, and she wonders why she cares what happens to the green-hooded psychopath.

"He's the only one who would believe me," comes the reply. "He knows that I'm trying to defend this city, too. Will you do it?"

Felicity swallows. "I guess, but I'm not going down as an accessory to whatever it is you're doing. I'm just going to say I found it on my desk after I went to make a pot of coffee." She pokes a finger into his chest again, but he really doesn't seem to mind her use of gestures for emphasis. "And you better back me up, if it comes to that."

"If it comes to that," he assures her, "I'll personally bail you out myself." Even though she doesn't want to believe him, he seems sincere. Briefly, she wonders how she gets herself into situations like these.

Before she can ask anything else, he's through the window, leaving a very bewildered Felicity Smoak to stare after him.

* * *

Quentin Lance is in the parking lot, just about to leave the job for what's left of the night, when he hears a very hesitant, "Detective Lance?"

Lance turns on his heel immediately, but he doesn't expect to see a blonde girl younger than either of his daughters carrying a very large tote over one arm. She looks kind of like one of those kids he arrested at the nerd convention thing last year for defacing some superhero movie poster—but nicer, of course. The plastic, square-framed glasses make her look intelligent, and she's dressed professionally, as though she's spent the day at an office. Except for the shoes, that is, which have pandas on them and are dressed up with sequins and bright colors, and, frankly, are really just weird.

He knows as soon as he replies, "Yeah?" that it's going to be a very interesting conversation.

She steps forward a little more before finally saying, "Detective Lance, I'm Felicity Smoak." She does a little awkward wave. "You probably don't know me or anything—because I'm an upstanding citizen, I assure you."

He decides to cut the rambling short because he's sleep-deprived and not in the mood to have a conversation with a girl who's so high-energy. "What can I do for you, Miss Smoak?" he tries this time, hoping pointed questions will get her out of his hair sooner.

Her smile is full of irritation aimed at herself. "I'm sorry to bother you, but..." She shakes her head before trying again, not satisfied with that start to the conversation. "Well, you see, I work at Queen Consolidated. I was there late tonight trying to file some paperwork, and, well, I found _this_"—she pulls out a very battered laptop from her bag—"lying on my desk. It was plugged up to one of the computers at my station, like someone was trying to figure out what was on the hard drive."

He takes it from her, and he realizes those pockmarks on its surface are _bullet holes_. "Do you know who left this?" he demands quickly.

She shakes her head, and he feels a little sorry for her; she seems completely frazzled by the turn of events. From a firsthand assessment, he figures she's never held a gun in her life and would be terrified if she saw a firefight. "I didn't until I notified security about the breach," she assures him, sounding more professional than he expects. He's pretty impressed that she can manage to keep her head on through this. "I have the video for you"—she pulls out a DVD—"but I thought you might like the still for when you catch him."

Dread immediately seizes him, but all is confirmed when she hands him the picture of the Vigilante at what must be her desk at QC. "I don't know what's on this laptop," she tells him, "but I think it might help you find him."

Lance takes all three items from her, eyeing the girl a little closer. She seems scared, and that's to be expected, but she also seems resolute, as if she truly wants to do this. "Thank you, Miss Smoak," he says before shaking her hand. "I can't tell you how invaluable this information is."

She offers him a small smile and a half-wave before saying, "Just doing all I can to help, Detective." With that, she walks away, leaving him to stare after her. The girl is a little blonde mystery, but he does appreciate that she's trying to help the police. Many have started to see the Vigilante as some sort of _hero_, so the subtle reminder that some citizens haven't lost their minds. But, despite that, there is something about the girl that bothers him. She's too calm, too put together for the type of scare she had tonight. Either she likes to keep her emotions in check or she's hiding something.

But, either way, Detective Lance intends to find out more about this Felicity Smoak.


	2. Computer Engineering

**Chapter: 2 - Computer Engineering  
Word Count: 3366**

**Notes:** So excited to get this thing on the road! :) This is now on a Thursday update schedule, but I'm not sure if it will be _every_ Thursday. The chapters have been incredibly difficult to write, so I'm not sure you'll get the chance to read new every week. :/ But, anyway, at the end of every chapter, there's a small "bonus scene" that ties into what's been happening. And all chapters will be 3000+ words, I promise. :) Reviews are much appreciated, but thanks for reading!**  
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* * *

Felicity sighs as she takes her strained, watering eyes away from the monitor. The day's work has been more intense than usual—installing new security features and protocols—and the added stress from dealing with Detective Lance has only increased the tension in the air. Ever since she dropped off that information to him—thank God she was able to clone that security footage—he's been particularly dogged about studying her. She's been down to the police station twice, and he's been in her office every day this week. She thinks she might crack under a little more pressure, but she doesn't know what else to do. In her paranoia, she hasn't been sleeping well, and her diet is now entirely coffee. That migraine has to do with more than just fatigue, she thinks, since she's been mainlining caffeine like it's going out of style.

She closes her eyes for a moment to relieve some of the strain, lying her head down on her desk for a moment and thinking of nothing. That's the plan, anyway, but her mind betrays her by replaying parts of that encounter with the Vigilante. The better part of her mind—the _sane_ part—insists that he's a psychotic killer, but that part of her brain that still loves Disney movies and believes in narwhals is certain he's trying to help the people of the city because the cops can't play dirty enough to win. She's not that naïve, but she still hopes the latter voice in her mind is right; she'd like to have a hero to believe in. She prefers knights in shining armor as her heroic icons, but she could work with a vigilante in green leather.

Her mini-break is interrupted by three short raps on the frame of her open door that cause her skull to throb with her headache. Before she can tell whoever-it-is that their polite entrance has angered the minotaur in her brain that likes to ram against her skull with full force, he asks, "Felicity Smoak?"

The voice is male and unfamiliar, which is the reason she dares raise her head and open one eye. What she sees causes her to open the other eye and gape at him. He's handsome, with dusty blonde hair and stubble around his jaw—and, Good God, eyes that startlingly blue should be against the laws of nature. It's a face she knows well, one she's grown up seeing on television sets and tabloid covers for as long as she remembers.

For a very rare moment in her life, she finds herself stunned speechless in the presence of none other than _Oliver Queen_.

She's still unable to form a coherent thought, staring at him with wide eyes. She must have fallen asleep and be dreaming now because there's no way Oliver Queen would be standing in her office. She blinks twice, but he's still there when her eyes open. She can't believe her eyes, so she goes with the inevitable second option: this job has _literally_ driven her insane, and she's hallucinating.

Oliver, for his part, takes things rather well, just smiling a pitying smile at her as if he's used to people gawking at him like idiots. "I'm Oliver Queen," he states, sounding for all the world like the smug bastard she's always thought he would be in person.

She flushes in embarrassment, frustrated that she's made a fool of herself in less than a minute into the conversation. "I'm aware of that," she snaps before realizing she's speaking to the future CEO of the company she works for. Nicer, she asks, "What can I do for you, Mr. Queen?"

He winces at something she says before he smiles that charming, playboy grin that has lured in many a girl. "Mr. Queen was my father," he replies, his tone cheerful enough despite the forlorn look in his eyes. "I'm not anybody's boss. You can call me Oliver."

They're silent for a moment, and Felicity realizes that he's not going to continue until she rephrases the question. "Fine, then," she replies, hoping she sounds professional enough. "What can I do for you ..._Oliver?_" His name sounds foreign on her tongue, like it's something she's forbidden to say. It doesn't feel right to be so casual in such a strictly-business arrangement.

He flashes another one of those smiles, but this time Felicity can see that it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Vaguely, she wonders how he _really_ feels under that fake exterior. "I'm in the market for a computer," he says with a lilt to his voice. "I had one before..." He doesn't finish the thought, face falling. But then the smile is plastered back as he continues, "Well, it's old now, and I'm looking to replace it. Walter told me that he got his last computer from you—something about customizing it for best performance?" He looks utterly confused for a moment, squinting and tilting his head to the side. Some might consider it adorable, but not Felicity. (Well, not _that_ adorable, anyway.)

Felicity nods. "I've built a few custom computers over the years," she replies, not wanting to commit herself to anything. "But for most users, a store-bought computer works just fine. Any reason why you need something special?"

He gives her a self-deprecating smile that he doesn't quite mean, shrugging. "Because I'm rich and I'm bored?" he offers jokingly. When he sees that she is less than amused, he tries again. "I'm a little... _concerned_ about security features. I'd like to have something that can't be traced or hacked."

She can feel her eyebrows rise in surprise. "You want a ghost," she says flatly, unable to believe what she's heard. Untraceable computers aren't really necessary for day-to-day computer usage, which makes her wonder what Oliver is doing in his spare time.

"If that means it's unidentifiable, then yes," he replies with that ridiculously charming smile, as though he can charm her into agreeing to do something so certifiably insane. He may have a nice smile, but once she sets her mind to something, it takes a lot more than his insincere charm to throw her off the scent.

It takes her a very long moment to decide, but then she realizes that, if she declines, she'll lose any chance at solving the mystery that calls himself Oliver Queen. He's a puzzle, with that fake charm smile and the need for an untraceable computer, and Felicity has never backed away from one yet. This one appears as though it might take all of her skill, and she hasn't had a challenge like that for years. And, besides, she tells herself, she's always wanted to make an unhackable computer, but has never built one for anyone who had the money to buy all the things she'd need. Oliver is the heir to a billionaire's fortune, so he can give her that opportunity.

Felicity takes a deep breath as she prepares to say the most insane things of her life. "Yes, I did customize a computer for Mr. Steele two years ago," she replies to his question finally, trying desperately to avoid talking about the minefield that is Oliver's five year break from reality. "I don't do it very often, but it's simple enough. I've never done an untraceable computer before, but I think I can with the right equipment."

His eyebrows rise in bewilderment. "You'll do it," he says, and it's not a question because he fully understands her words. She understands why he's skeptical; he's asked her to perform as Sisyphean task, and all she does is say she needs a good challenge.

Ignoring the not-really-a-question, she says, "You pay for the parts I need and I'll build it for you—to whatever specifications you want. Is that acceptable with you?"

Oliver smiles as though he's just won the lottery—well, not the lottery, she decides, since he's rich anyway, but maybe a room full of puppies. "That will be great, Felicity." She's not sure she likes the sudden familiarity between them, but she's not quite sure she dislikes it, either. She knows she's playing with fire by doing _anything_ for Oliver Queen, but she can't really stop herself from wanting to help him. The man lived in his own personal Hell for five years; building him an untraceable computer because he's (rightly) paranoid is the least she can do.

She picks up her pen, tapping it against the corner of her mouth. "What kind of computer are you looking for?"

His head tilts to the side while he looks at her as if no one ever asks Oliver Queen what kind of computer he'd like. "I don't think I understand," he replies smoothly, with all the finesse of a crooked politician. Well, if he ever needs a career...

Felicity shakes her head to clear it before rolling her eyes. "Well, most people like to customize a computer based on their needs and price range. Since I know price doesn't necessarily apply to you, do you have any specific needs you want me to tailor your computer to—other than the encryption part, of course? How about this—how much hard drive space will you need?"

He actually seems to think about her question this time, giving it serious thought before answering, "I know I need it to be fast, but honestly computers aren't really my thing." And here she thought _she_ was supposed to be the dumb blonde. He's clearly playing a role he seems to think he fits, but Felicity can tell by that calculating set to his eyes that he's not as stupid as he'd like her to believe. "What's the going rate for hard drives—isn't it something like two hundred and fifty gigabytes?"

_Definitely_ not as foolish as he acts, then. "Maybe five years ago," Felicity scoffs, but then she realizes what she just said. She wants to apologize, but she thinks it will probably go better for both of them if they just pretend she _didn't_ just mention the island. "Now, it's more like a seven-fifty gig to a terabyte of storage space." She quirks her head to the side. "A little excessive if you ask me. I have a lot of data storage, and five hundred gigs are more than enough for me."

His mouth draws into a thin line as he thinks, before finally asking, "What would you suggest?"

It takes Felicity a moment to answer because she's so unprepared for _Oliver Queen_ to ask her lowly IT nerd opinion. "If it were me," she replies slowly, carefully, "I'd go with a smaller hard drive and put a quad-core processor in it. Usually you only _need_ something that impressive with a vast, abysmal cavern of a hard drive—like your terabyte ones—but if you put a powerhouse like that in with a small hard drive? It would outrun the Flash."

Oliver tilts his head to the side as he asks, "The Flash?" It's clear that the phrase has absolutely no meaning to him, a hollow set of words waiting to be filled with information.

Felicity can feel her face turn crimson, cursing her own stupidity for uttering the phrase. "It's a comic book," she answers after a very long moment, huffing at her own dorky references. When he still looks bewildered, she finally says, "I'm a nerd in all possible uses of the word."

He points to her coffee mug—the one that sat on her desk while the Vigilante was sitting in the very seat Oliver now occupies. "Is that how you explain this?" he asks with a half-smile that might actually be genuine, pointing toward the coffee mug she hasn't moved since the Vigilante ordeal.

She actually flushes at that, though she has no idea why it's so embarrassing. "Yeah, something like that," she answers noncommittally, not wanting to rehash the same conversation she's had with all of her coworkers. Absently, she thinks they really seem to have an issue with British programming; she still isn't sure about that show with the bug name that everyone seems to go on about. And she _certainly_ doesn't get why anyone would watch a show with a _female_ Watson.

The two of them discuss his different options for computers for a while, until they finally settle on all the parts. It's going to run him a ridiculous twenty-five hundred dollars, but he doesn't seem to mind the price. That laptop's going to be her envy, so she makes sure to type up all the designs and information, just in case she ever wants to make one for herself.

She finally passes him the sheet of paper she typed up when Walter came to her about the first and only other computer she's ever designed. It's just a release that allows her to build the machine, and that promises him to pay for all the parts they've picked out. "Just sign here," she says as she offers her pen in his direction and lays the release form down in front of him.

He hesitates a moment before taking the pen, brushing his hand against hers slightly in the process. He grips it in a completely awkward fashion, as if he's not sure what to do with it, and she realizes he's probably holding a pen in his hand for the first time in five years. She feels a little sorry for him, so she turns back to her computer and works on the diagnostic report she had been typing up before he came in. Finally, he clears his throat and says, "That should be it."

Felicity turns back around with a smile she hopes isn't pitying or sympathetic. "Thank you," she says absently as she pulls away the paper and runs it through her scanner. She's found that it's a lot easier to keep up with paperwork when it's not actually paper.

When he doesn't respond, she looks at him, only to see him staring behind her at the office door. She wheels around immediately to see none other than Detective Lance staring between her and Oliver. His expression is clear anger when aimed at Oliver, but it looks more like disapproval when he turns toward her. But Felicity will _not_ be made to feel guilty for what is a business transaction.

Squaring her shoulders, she looses what she hopes is a pleasant smile in Lance's direction. "Oh, hello again, Detective," she says as politely as she can. "What can I do for you today?" She knows she shouldn't be irritated by his presence—he's just a cop trying to do his job, after all—but he's been here every day since she turned in the laptop, and he should know by now that she's not going to give him anything more.

"Queen," he acknowledges gruffly. He gives Felicity a sardonic smile before continuing, "I just stopped by to see if you've thought of anything new about my current case." He seems a little hesitant to discuss it in front of Oliver.

Tough, she decides as she answers, "No, nothing more than what I told you the last time, Detective. He didn't approach me. Just left the computer on my desk. When I saw the bullet holes, I brought it directly to you." After all, he came into _her_ office to hound her, and he should be prepared for the consequences of his actions.

Oliver seems a little alarmed by the entire situation, so he asks, "Bullet holes? Did something happen here?" There's clear concern in his voice as he asks, "Felicity, are you all right?"

Before Lance can cut her off, she answers, "The Vigilante left me a present on my desk the other night—a laptop ridden with bullet holes." She chances a pointed look at the detective before saying, "He was gone before I got there, but I caught his picture on the security video, and I turned everything into Detective Lance here."

Oliver sends Lance a sardonic smile that says there isn't much love lost in that relationship. "Sounds to me like you have everything you need, then, Detective," he says cheerfully, but there's a hint of something to it that might be a little threatening, as if Lance should kindly leave before things get worse.

Lance seems to take the hint, but he doesn't want to give Oliver the satisfaction. He smiles with no warmth whatsoever before saying, "Well, when you get your detective's badge, you can tell me how things sound." He turns on his heel before turning back, pointing at Oliver. "Be careful, Miss Smoak," he says, sounding genuinely concerned. "Queen uses people—don't let him use you, too." With those parting words, he walks out of the office. Of course, he's not able to see the way Oliver's face falls at the reminder.

Before Felicity can say anything to repair the damage, Oliver rises from his chair. "He's right," he says finally, then offers her a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I do use people. But I'm trying to be better."

And, with those words, Felicity finds herself alone in her office, praying to the gods of sadistic humor to stop messing around with her life.

* * *

It's just after darkness _really_ falls that Quentin Lance makes it to his car, about to leave for the night. It's been a very long day, and the Vigilante case has yet to turn up any more new leads. The Smoak girl isn't breaking the way he'd suspect—she was so shady that night, and he was certain she was hiding something. It's the same story every time, and he's starting to wonder if his cop intuition is failing him. At least they were able to get that information off the hard drive—but he has no idea why the Vigilante would want to know about the Exchange Building.

He reaches his car, and is suddenly slammed against it; a man uses one hand holding him against the car and the other to twist Lance's right arm behind him painfully. Before he can mutter every threat and expletive he knows, a synthesized robotic voice says, "Good evening, Detective." Without seeing him, Lance knows it's the Vigilante who has decided to plague him tonight.

"You son of a—" he starts to snarl, but he's cut off by the city's most notorious killer.

"You can insult me later," comes the sarcastic reply. "But, for now, we have business to discuss."

"If you think that I'm going to do business with _you_—" Lance starts, but he breaks off into a yell as his arm is wrenched up even more painfully.

"You have the information you need," the Vigilante says in that discordant, unnatural voice, "to stop Floyd Lawton. He's the sniper that shot at me on the rooftops. He's killed two men so far, and he's working for Warren Patel to thin the competition for Unidac Industries." A staticky sigh echoes through the voice modifier. "The building is surrounded well for sniper perches, and I can't save this city alone. Detective, I'm asking for your help."

"It's my _job_ to defend this city," Lance spits back hatefully. "Of course I'll keep them safe. But if I see you, information or not, don't think I won't arrest you."

"Fair enough," is the Vigilante's reply. He lets off some of the pressure, as if he's going to leave, but, just as Lance starts to relax, he's pinned to the car again. "And Detective?" he adds quickly. "Let me make one thing very clear: Felicity Smoak isn't implicit in my crimes." Lance's blood freezes as he realizes that the other man knows the girl's name; there's no telling what the Vigilante will do, and Smoak is his _daughter's_ age, for Christ's sake. "I used her to deliver a message to you—nothing more." A cold chill enters his voice as he says his next words: "And if you keep pursuing her, there _will_ be consequences." He releases Lance, and an arrow lands home next to Lance's hand, puncturing the car and punctuating the threat.

When the detective looks, though, the Vigilante is nowhere to be found.


	3. Exploratory Server Surgery

**Chapter: 3 - Exploratory Server Surgery**  
**Word Count: 3237**

**Notes:** First of all, I'd like to blame a list of euphemisms for the title—it's not my creativity there. :) A lot of research went into this chapter, actually, and I'm pretty sure I now know more about shiba inus than I even thought possible. :P

I've decided to alternate meetings between the Vigilante and Oliver, so this is another Vigilante chapter—and this one was much more fun to write in my opinion. But I'll let you be the judge. If you want to let me know what you think, reviews are always appreciated. :) But, hey, thanks for reading-no matter what you decide.

Also, there's a lot of vague references in this one. Virtual hugs and/or cookies to anyone who figures them out! :)

**Just as a side note, after tonight, I probably won't respond to your reviews until Monday. I've got some crazy things going on this weekend, but don't give up on me! :)**

* * *

Felicity huffs as she turns her frustration both on the uncooperative motherboard and the blonde girl on screen who has yet to realize that the angel statues are after her. (She reminds herself to stop watching this episode, since it always makes her mad.) She wants to scream, but she knows that's just foolish. The next time she sees Oliver Queen, she's going to strangle him, because his computer is just as frustrating as he is. She frowns down at the computer, then realizes she has her hand on one of the components. Thank God it's not live yet, or she'd be getting a nice static charge through her hair right about now. She shifts her hand away to find the part she needs, then starts tinkering with it.

She jumps about a foot in the air, stifling a scream, when she hears her dog barking in her bedroom, at just about the same time as the angel almost attacks a guy on her television set. She reminds herself never to watch the episode at night, but then her dog barks again. Saphira is generally very quiet, so if she's barking, it means that there's an intruder—or something _very_ out of place. She shoves the half-assembled computer onto her coffee table, pauses the show, and picks up the baseball bat she keeps for such an occasion from beside her TV.

She carefully walks into her bedroom, and she _does_ let out a half-muted scream this time as she sees the figure on the door adjoining to the fire escape, but she drops the bat immediately. Saphira, fierce as her namesake, angles herself between Felicity and the intruder, barking in a manner that is pretty intimidating. Her tail is curled over her back tightly, and her mouth is pulled taut as she exposes her teeth to the intruder. Saphira isn't playing around this time, and he's very right to be crouched in the doorway, away from the dog.

Felicity puts a hand on the shiba inu's back, and tries to grab her by the collar. Saphira instead forces herself between Felicity and the intruder, and Felicity sighs for not the first time at the dog's tenacious nature. Sure, that's why she wanted her, but the dog can be more stubborn than Felicity herself on occasion, and it's just _demeaning_ to lose an argument to a dog.

"Very protective," the Vigilante says, his voice modulated by a synthesizer once again. He seems to be more focused on the twenty-pound dog than on Felicity at this point—and for good reason. Saphira is a sweet dog when she wants to be, but she's also fiercely loyal to Felicity. Not to mention, she has the power and stamina of a dog twice her size, so he's right to be wary of her.

"Saphira, that's enough," she commands sharply, and the dog whines, sitting between them still. She looks at the Vigilante. "She's supposed to be protective—that's why I bought her. I've already had one break-in, and I'd like to deter any future thieves. She may be small, but she's pretty scary when she wants to be."

He tilts his head to the side. "You shouldn't be in an apartment so close to the Glades," he says, tone equal parts concern and chiding. "That last break-in should have been a warning to move." His expression is unreadable, but Felicity is tired of overprotective guys hanging over her life. First Oliver Queen, now a psychopathic vigilante. Vaguely, she wonders what she did to invoke such wrath from the higher powers that be.

She crosses her arms defensively, not sure she likes this level of demanding protectiveness he's giving her. "That's rich," she snaps, "a _Vigilante_ giving _me_ life advice. I like my apartment, and I'm not going to let some doped-up teenagers scare me away. Now, why are you here?" Then she realizes she has a more important question: "How do you even know where I live?"

Of course he ignores her question, just as she expects him to. "I need your help," he says simply, but offers no other explanation or apology for scaring the crap out of her. With the dog calmed, he steps into the room slowly. Saphira growls, but she allows him entry anyway.

The idea of him in her bedroom is starting to give her the creeps, so she motions toward the doorway. "Come into the living room, and we'll talk," she says finally, knowing that she'll probably never understand this guy.

He follows her into the room, head swiveling around as he takes it all in, but he uses an extra amount of time to study the TV, paused on a scene of angel statues around a blue phone box. Felicity suddenly burns with embarrassment at being caught watching such a nerdy show, but the Vigilante mercifully doesn't ask. Felicity takes her seat on the sofa again, the dismantled laptop reminding her of what she _should_ be doing—instead of allowing a hooded vigilante to wander around her home at will. He reaches to run a hand over it, but she slaps his hand away before he can mess up two hours of work. "Don't touch that," she snaps. "It's a project for a client and has nothing to do with you." She sighs before putting a hand to her forehead, willing her headache to stop. "Could you sit down or something? You're making me nervous."

He obliges instantly, sitting down at the opposite end of the sofa. The room is lit only by a lamp focused on the laptop for Oliver Queen, but he leans forward anyway to let the hood shade his face as much as possible. She likes his jawline, she decides, then shakes her head to clear it. Those thoughts will _not_ do.

Before she can speak, Saphira jumps up on the cushion between them, her head tilted toward the Vigilante. He takes the defiance pretty well for a known killer, absently reaching out with an open hand toward her. "I'm looking into the Peter Declan case," he says finally as Saphira sniffs his gloved fingers warily.

"Peter _Declan?_" Felicity repeats. She knows the name well; she's heard it on all the news stations. The man was sentenced for killing his wife, and he's going to be executed in two days' time. "I would have thought that case was closed by now."

Carefully, he reaches out to pet the dog between them, and Saphira allows the interaction as his fingers rub along her black and white coat, with just that kiss of red separating the two shades. "Declan's wife was going to blow the whistle on Jason Brodeur," he answers. "Jason Brodeur is on the list, and I want to know if he had a man's wife killed."

Felicity huffs, seeing that even her _dog_ has turned traitor against her, cozying up to the man in green leather now. "I can't help you with that," she informs him. "You need a lawyer. This one sounds like it has Laurel Lance written all over it." When he doesn't immediately respond, she continues, "You know, Laurel Lance? She's a hotshot lawyer that takes cases like this—you know, defends those who can't afford high-priced attorneys. She dated Oliver Queen before the whole 'castaway' thing. Bad taste in men aside, she seems like a really awesome lawyer. She seems like the type that would do anything to save the life of an innocent man."

He doesn't answer any of that, but instead says, "Before I can take it to any attorney,"—the words roll out of his mouth like he's thinking about enlisting Laurel's help—"I need to know if there were any other leads the police might have had." His hand is absently running over the twenty-pound shiba in his lap, and Saphira is eating up the attention. It's surprising how quickly he earned her trust, but, then again, she's always been told that dogs always fall in line for stronger personalities. She has no doubt the Vigilante is a strong personality.

"Oh," Felicity says quietly, not sure what to say next. But then the realization hits her like a battering ram and she gasps, "_Oh!_ You want _me_ to break into an SCPD server? Because, you know, I almost got arrested after your last interference in my life, and I _can't_ go to jail. I'm not mean enough to last a day in there, and—"

The Arrow cuts her short. "Detective Lance will not bother you any longer," he assures her with an air of finality in his tone. A shiver of dread worms its way down her spine.

Felicity gasps. "Please don't tell me you killed him," she begs. "I mean, he was annoying, but it was only because he's a good cop trying to find someone he believes to be a bad guy. He doesn't deserve to _die_—"

He cuts her off again. "No," he says sharply. "I didn't kill him." Felicity releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. "I simply warned him that there would be consequences if he pursued you again."

An errant thought makes its way out of her mouth: "How did you even know he was going after me?" She's starting to feel a little creeped out by how much he seems to know about her life, and she vaguely wonders if she has a stalker now.

He doesn't answer her, and she thinks that if he dodges bullets with the same grace he dodges questions, it's little wonder why no one has killed him. "Will you help me? A man's life is on the line, Felicity." He isn't really begging, but Felicity has a feeling that this is perhaps as close as he'll ever get to pleading with her.

She sighs in defeat as she lifts her laptop from beside Oliver's mostly-dismantled one next to it. Her fingers fly over the keyboard for a moment, but she's finally able to tell him, "Wow, they had blood, fingerprints, motive—pretty much everything they needed to convict him. Slam dunk for the District Attorney's office." She scans the file for a moment before adding, "The statement from Declan says that his wife went to blow the whistle on something to her supervisor, but he says it didn't happen." She moves off to another file to answer the question she already knows to anticipate. "It looks like the supervisor's name is... Matt Isthook."

"Can you print that information for me?" he asks now, again offering no further explanation. He seems to be good at doing that, and it doesn't irritate her as much now as it did the first time.

This time, though, he doesn't have to because Felicity already understands. "You're going to take this to Laurel," she states, fully aware it's going to be his action. She doesn't wait for his confirmation before pressing the print button. She frowns as she realizes she'll have to buy a new printer now; anyone can trace a printoff to a printer nowadays. "You owe me a printer," she mutters, softly enough she thinks he won't hear it.

He steps over to her printer and waits for it to discharge all the information. "I'll see that you get a new one," he promises with the same authority that he used when he told her that Lance wouldn't bother her anymore. She stares at the back of him a little too long, ogling his... _better features_. Her face heats when he catches her, and she turns away instantly.

When she turns back to him, she sees that he's already starting to turn toward her bedroom to leave. "Wait," she calls, and he turns to her immediately. "I'm glad to help you and all—don't get me wrong—but I want you to promise me you won't use my information to kill anyone. Helping you protect this city is one thing, but being an accomplice to murder is another thing entirely." She crosses her arms for emphasis.

He doesn't have to answer—and she doesn't really expect him to—but he takes several steps toward her, close enough for her to see the black mask across his eyes, before he says, "I promise." There's a sincerity to his tone that she doesn't dare doubt, and she doesn't think she wants to do so.

Before she can acknowledge his statement, he's out of the apartment, leaving her to ponder her thoughts.

* * *

Laurel Lance turns the key to her apartment, frowning when she realizes how dark it is in the room. She knows she's paid her bill, so she doesn't quite expect it. She takes a few more steps into the room, that sixth sense of danger creeping up her spine. She pulls the gun she has in the drawer of her cabinet in the doorway, which she keeps for just such emergencies.

Her previous surprise is _nothing_ compared to how she feels when she sees the hooded figure standing in front of the window in the space she uses as an office. She knows the stories, both what she's heard on the news and what she's heard from her dad. She doesn't hesistate a second as she raises the gun. The man is a killer, and while she doesn't know what he wants with her, she's also not the kind of girl who takes chances. Well, at least not since she dated Oliver Queen.

If he's daunted by the gun between them, he doesn't show it. "Hello, Laurel," he says quietly, as though they're old buddies and he's just stopping by to chat. The tone is distorted by some sort of electronic device, and computers have never really been her thing.

She shakes the gun between them for emphasis. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you," she demands, taking better aim. The last thing she wants is for this creep to get the jump on her, and she's not going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He holds up the bow between them in a nonthreatening way, his other hand far away from the quiver strapped to his back. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says, his voice soft and low, so surprisingly gentle for a man known in his own city as a killer. Before she can retort that she knows that because _she's_ the one with a gun, he continues, "I could use your help."

He steps toward her, and she doesn't hesitate to fire, but the only thing leaving the gun is the soft _click click click_ of an empty chamber. She's confused for a moment because she knows she leaves the gun loaded, but then he holds up a clip of bullets. She wonders how he knew where she kept the gun, but then she figures even a criminal can get lucky every now and again. "If you're going to shoot me," he says, "you might need these. I'll give them back to you once we're done. I promise."

She means to tell him that she doesn't believe him, but it comes out as, "What do you want?" Her voice is tired, strained with the irritation she's gained since playing games with this cretin.

She thinks she can see a hint of a satisfactory smile trace those lips. "What do you know about the Peter Declan case?" he counters fluidly. She doesn't like the way he answers her question with his own, but she's trying to mask the frustration brewing behind her expression. The last thing she needs is to fly at him in a rage and get herself killed—and she's _sure_ he's just as good in a fistfight as he is with arrows.

She thinks a moment before saying, "Declan is set to be executed in twenty-four hours. The man killed his wife." She has no sympathy for criminals, and she wants to tell the Vigilante that, but she's too afraid to say anything against him now that she's defenseless.

"Peter Declan, is innocent," he proclaims. "The real mastermind behind this crime is Jason Brodeur. Declan's wife was going to blow the whistle on something within Brodeur's chemical company, and he had her silenced." He throws something that looks like a case file across her desk, along with what looks like a signed confession. "Matt Isthook, her direct supervisor, admits that in his letter. This should be all you need to send Peter Declan home to his daughter."

Laurel examines the files for a moment before she focuses on him again to ask, "Why me?" When he doesn't immediately answer, she tries again. "There has to be a thousand lawyers in this town. What made you choose _me_ out of all of them?"

His answer is slow and hesitant. "Because you come highly recommended," he answers finally. "And I know that you're the kind of person who would stop at nothing to save the life of an innocent man."

It scares her how well he already knows her, how his words strike home. She wonders vaguely if she's ever met him before when he's not all hooded up and murderous, but then she realizes that she wouldn't meet anyone so obviously deranged on the street. She then ponders who referred him to her, and then thinks she should probably stop allowing her clients to loan out her name and card like that.

She sighs after a long moment, knowing she's going to play into his hand, something that she doesn't like _at all_. "Fine," she snaps, trying to sound disgruntled to work up the feeling. "I'll see what I can do for Declan, but I'm not going to promise anything." She thinks for a moment before asking, "How do I contact you?"

He offers her a black smartphone, which he also slides onto the desk, along with the clip of bullets. "Call me when you have information for me," he says quickly, and then he's through the window again and gone before she can take any more shots at him, leaving Laurel to ponder her thoughts in the dark. And then the light comes on.

So she does what she does best: sits at her desk and analyzes the information she was given. She decides she'll pour over the books for a few hours, and then she promises she'll do her best to save Peter Declan. After all, someone out there is counting on her to do her best job—someone who knew enough to send the Vigilante to her over this.

Whoever it is, she doesn't quite know, but she won't fail them.


	4. Initial Computer Setup

**Chapter: 4 - Initial Computer Setup  
Word Count: 3489**

**Notes:** First of all, the rating on this has officially gone up, so if you shouldn't be reading Teen (mine roughly being the equivalent of a mild PG-13), please see yourselves out. I don't think this should apply to anyone, though; it shouldn't be any worse than the show itself. :)

Secondly, this was an interesting chapter to write. I actually explained a reference in this one because (a) I didn't think anyone would get it, and (b) for conversation's sake. The bonus scene on this was incredibly fun because, well, you'll see. :P As always, reviews/comments/questions are perfectly welcome and appreciated, but thanks for reading despite what you choose to do afterward. :)

**Also, special thanks to an anonymous reviewer.** They were kind enough to point out that it should be the city of "Omashu," not "Ba Sing Se." Thanks, Anon, for the love and the correction—I'm glad you waved the geek stick. :) Obviously it's been too long since I watched that show, and I guess I think I'm funny. :P

* * *

Felicity Smoak has never felt so out-of-place in her life as when she drives up to the Queen mansion in her Mini Cooper with Oliver's newly assembled computer. She feels like she's at homecoming all over again, but this time she's sitting in the middle of the popular crowd with her nose in a book. She shouldn't be here, but of course Oliver wanted the damn laptop delivered to him. She doesn't want to go in there, but she doesn't really have a choice.

She squares her shoulders as she walks up to the door and dares ring the doorbell. She's only mildly surprised when a maid opens the door. "May I help you?" she asks in a light accent that takes Felicity a moment to identify. Russian, probably, but it could just as easily be Ukrainian or another Slavic language.

"Yeah, hi," she answers awkwardly, but she's just glad her voice isn't shaking—or worse, she could have her voice crack like a boy going through puberty. "My name is Felicity Smoak. I'm not sure if—"

The woman nods, smiles. "Please, Miss Smoak," she says, opening the door wide and waving her in. "Mister Oliver is expecting you. He should be down soon." Felicity balks at the use of "Mister Oliver," but she follows the nice, motherly woman into the foyer.

She can barely hold back a gasp of surprise as she walks into the impressive entrance, examining the high arch of the ceiling, the wooden staircase, and the ornate decor. The maid leads her into the foyer, with expensive-looking furniture and a very nice plasma TV on the wall. She's even more intimidated by the mansion now than before; she should _seriously_ not be here. After all, Felicity's idea of fancy is a dinner at Olive Garden, and she's pretty sure that's a Rembrandt—the real thing, not a print—on the wall.

"Mister Oliver will be with you shortly," she offers kindly, and she beams when Felicity thanks her. She's clearly not used to kind, fair treatment from the Starling City elite, and Felicity can't help but feel a little sorry for her. Felicity may not have the world's best job, but at least she's treated like an actual human being every day.

The maid disappears, and Felicity sits in silence for a very long moment, letting her thoughts run wild as she looks around the room. She actually dares to sit on the expensive sofa, and she finds it's rather comfortable for high-priced furniture (not that she has much experience with that). Even the coffee table looks expensive, and she finds a very nice collection of Shakespeare's plays sitting on the table as part of the decor. It looks old, and she wonders if it's worth anything. But, knowing the Queen mansion, it probably is. After all, she reminds herself, these are the kind of people who blow their noses on hundred-dollar bills.

She almost misses it when the girl walks in, her chocolate-colored hair wavy and long. She's young and beautiful, and bored in the same sense that Felicity has always imagined the idle rich. She knows on sight the girl is Thea Queen, but the camera doesn't do the girl justice. But, then again, maybe it does; she's pretty wasted in most of those paparazzi shots that splatter across the local tabloids.

The girl narrows her eyes at Felicity, and she feels a tendril of dread work its way down her spine. The stories say that Thea has a temper, and that it does _not_ bode well to be on her bad side. Felicity swallows, and the girl says to her, "Let me guess—you're here to see my brother." It's a statement, not a question, and the disdain in her voice is as clear as day—as well as the implication she's making.

All Felicity knows is that she wants to set her straight, but that somehow leaves her mouth in a rush of, "Oliver and I have never had sex." She turns crimson when she realizes what she says, and she puts a hand to her forehead and moans, "You know, I should just have my mouth sewed shut—it would save me a lot of trouble."

She's not sure what she expects as a response, but Thea falls onto the opposite sofa, laughing. Felicity envies the way she still manages to be graceful with the action, even as she wipes tears from her eyes. After she finally sobers, she says with a lilt to her voice, "You're not like the others, are you?" Before Felicity can respond, Thea shakes her head. "I'm sorry—I'm being rude."

She's saved from answering by a lilting British accent as Walter Steele comes into the room. "Allow me to make introductions," he offers politely. "Miss Smoak, this is my stepdaughter, Thea Queen. Thea, this is Felicity Smoak. She's a computer technician in our IT department at Queen Consolidated." Turning back to Felicity he asks, "I trust Oliver came to you about a custom computer system?"

Felicity nods. "Yes, Mr. Steele—thank you for the recommendation, by the way. That's actually why I'm here—I finished it, and he asked me to deliver it to him." She pats the briefcase next to her. "I just need to make sure it meets expectations."

Walter nods, doing one of those little half-smiles. "I trust that it will," he says with sincerity, before clasping his hands together. "I'm afraid I'm needed at the office, but I'll see you both later." He kisses Thea on the cheek before continuing, "Always a pleasure, Miss Smoak."

"Nice to see you again, too, Mr. Steele," she responds cordially. He leaves quickly, and Felicity finds herself alone in the room with Thea again.

This time, Thea appraises her for a moment before saying, "I'm sorry. I acted like a bitch, and you're just trying to do something nice for my brother." She sighs. "It's just that most women that spend time with my brother are out for themselves, so I tend to jump to conclusions." Quietly, she adds, "He's been through a lot."

Felicity thinks about that for a moment, murmuring her forgiveness. Oliver has been through a lot, and that's putting it mildly; God only knows what he faced on that island for the past five years. She remembers again how difficult it was for him to even sign his name, and she thinks that his re-integration into society is going to be horribly difficult. No wonder he has been away from the paparazzi and the public eye. On top of that, she realizes that the Oliver Queen she met was not the same one who made tabloid covers; he was nice to her, and looked incredibly apologetic for the thing with Sara Lance. Maybe it's going to be even harder for him to integrate back into his family—because the Oliver Queen who left on that boat is clearly not the same one in her office a few weeks ago.

Before any further conversation can develop, Oliver walks in, his eyes narrowing when he sees Thea sitting across from Felicity. "Hey, Thea?" he asks, and she tilts her head toward him. "I think Mom was looking for you. Why don't you see what she wants?"

Thea's eyes narrow at the obvious dismissal, but she rises from the seat. "Nice to meet you, Felicity," she says before heading out of the room.

Silence stretches out between her and Oliver, and she feels the need to fill it. "Mr. Queen," she starts, but then she remembers he doesn't like being called that. She winces before continuing, "Sorry. Oliver, I have your laptop ready to go. I think it meets _all_ of your specifications, but I'd like you to make sure."

He nods briefly. "Since some of the requirements are a little... _sensitive_, let's go up to my room." He suggests it as though he's asking her into the dining room for lunch—casual, impersonal, and completely devoid of any emotion.

She hesitates. "Are you sure that's okay? Because, I mean, I don't want to give the wrong impression to everyone and—"

He cuts her off, smiling slightly. "Felicity," he says in a tone that says so much in one single word. Stepping closer, he continues, "It's better not to do this in the open."

She realizes the logic of his statement and relents, sighing. "Fine," she says tiredly. She curses herself for being such a sucker for a pretty face; he's nothing but exhausting, and she doesn't know how anyone tolerates him on a daily basis, much less _lives_ with him.

He leads her up the elaborate staircase and down a series of winding halls she will never be able to find her way out of. "Are you sure this doesn't eventually lead to the city of Omashu?" she blurts, and then realizes Oliver probably won't have a clue what she's talking about.

He continues walking, but he turns to look at her for a moment. She's not disappointed when he frowns, eyes narrowed in confusion as he asks, "Leads to _where?_"

Felicity groans. "Never mind," she assures him quickly, coloring at her own stupidity.

He stops this time. "I'd like to know," he says quietly, trying to smile even though it doesn't reach his eyes. "No one makes references to television or movies around me anymore." He doesn't add anything else, but he doesn't have to: it's clear his family doesn't want to upset him about the missing five years of his life.

Always a sucker for a sad face, Felicity answers, sighing, "It's from a TV show called Avatar," she answers finally. He starts walking again as she adds, "And it has nothing to do with the James Cameron movie with blue people that is also amazing. But M. Night Shyamalan did make a movie out of it." She clears her head by shaking it. "Anyway, there's an episode in season two—called 'The Cave of Two Lovers'—where they're trying to get into a city called Ba Sing Se, and main characters go through a series of tunnels that keep changing. Like a living maze, which is what your house is starting to remind me of." She stops babbling as they get to the door, and she can see just a hint of a smile on his face.

He opens the door and ushers her in, and as she takes in the opulence of the room, she mutters, "I keep thinking I'll see a miniature giraffe around here." It earns her a questioning glance from Oliver, but she ignores it as she takes in the room and he shuts the door. It's such an impersonal space; it wouldn't surprise her if he didn't spend much time here. "Where should I set up?" she asks casually, trying to pretend she's in just another office and not Oliver Queen's bedroom.

Oliver waves a hand toward a nice mahogany desk that _definitely_ didn't come from an Ikea. "Over here will be fine," he says, before attempting to clear a '90s model monitor off the top.

Felicity stops him. "No," she says a little loud, startling him, and she winces. She tries again, "No, that's all right—I can disassemble that old system." She's about to say more but she stops, biting her lip.

Oliver offers her a tentative smile as he coaxes her. "And?"

"_And_," Felicity continues as prompted, "if you don't have use for the old computer and monitor, I can maybe repurpose them for parts." With a self-conscious hand gesture, she finally adds, "I have a few side projects going."

"Go ahead and take them, then," he assures her. "I'll just throw them out anyway." As she attempts to shut down the still-running computer, he changes the subject. "That reminds me—we still haven't discussed your fee."

She's confused for a moment, but then she realizes that the Queen family is used to flashing money to get things done. "I'll have everything up as soon as I can," she assures him. "The old one might be a little stubborn to move out of here, but setting up the laptop shouldn't take too long."

To her surprise, he shakes his head. "No, how much money do I owe you for your labor?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing," is her response. "You paid for the parts, and an IT nerd playing with computer parts is a happy IT nerd. No charge necessary." Since the computer is shut down, she unplugs the tower and the monitor from the wall socket before crawling under the desk to untangle wires and devices.

She's surprised when she sees Oliver sink to his knees on the other side of the desk. "How can I help?" he asks, and Felicity has to admit that the sight of Oliver on the floor in a pair of jeans that cost more than she makes in a month, frowning adorably at the clutter of wires, is a sight to behold.

She directs him to the monitor hookups, and they work their way through the wiring together. Felicity neatly gathers the cables, the tower, and the monitor in the corner of the room for now. "Thanks for that," she says, but he doesn't respond because he's interrupted by the knock on the door.

"Come in," he says instead, as Felicity sits the laptop on the desk. For her benefit, he adds, "That would be Mr. Diggle, my bodyguard." It seems a little insane; the world Felicity has stepped into is clearly not the one she's used to. Here, there are maids and bodyguards and chauffeurs—and apparently stretch limos and lowly IT girls who are forced to do favors for no pay.

The man that walks in sports a shaved head and a nice suit, standing like a soldier. He's built like one, too, because his arms look like they belong to the Hulk, not an average guy who offers her a very nice smile. "Mr. Queen," he says, with no preamble, speaking softly for such a big man, "the police are downstairs, and they want to talk to you." Meaningfully, he adds, "Detective Lance is with them."

Felicity stops Oliver from speaking. "Oh, well," she says awkwardly, "that sounds like my cue to leave. If it's okay, Oliver, I'll pick up that computer later." She shudders. "I do not want to get involved with Bad-Cop-Worse-Cop down there ever again." She pats his shoulder, but winces when he tenses at the contact. "Good luck, Oliver."

He leads the three of them out of the room and down the stairs to the entrance hall, to where they see Detective Lance standing, handcuffs already out. Whatever is going on now, Felicity knows it can't be good, and it's only going to have one conclusion. She just feels sorry for Oliver, because, whatever is happening, she has a feeling he didn't exactly ask for the entire situation.

Oliver seems to have come to the same conclusion. Lowly, he says to her, "Felicity, I need you to do me a favor, please." He pauses before explaining said favor, looking at her as if he expects her to say no.

If he does, he's certainly disappointed. "All you have to do is name it," Felicity promises him, and she wonders how she can possibly identify any at all with him after meeting him twice.

"I need you to hire an attorney for me." At the unspoken question in her eyes, he answers, "I know my mother won't listen to me, and I know you will." Before she can question anything, he takes his copy of the computer specifications out of his shirt pocket. "I need a pen," he tells her. When she scrounges one out of her pockets, he hands her a pen and says, "Can you write for me?" Before she can answer, he dictates, "'I, Oliver Queen, hereby authorize Felicity Smoak to obtain an attorney on my behalf.'" She thinks he knows a little much about legal jargon for a former playboy billionaire, but of course that comment doesn't escape the confines of her mind.

She wonders where the sudden burst of trust comes from, but she doesn't ask, only doing as he says because there probably isn't time for questions. After she finishes, she offers him the pen and paper, and he signs slowly before handing it back to her. "I want you to get Laurel for me," he says lowly before walking toward Lance. Before she can ask, he's already talking to Lance. "Detective, you wanted to see me?"

Without preamble, he responds, "Oliver Queen, you're under arrest for suspicion of obstruction of justice, breaking and entering, illegal entry, aggravated assault, assault on a police officer..." Felicity gasps at the ridiculous charges; she knows they're accusing him of being the Vigilante without really saying it. She's _met_ the Vigilante, and he is most certainly not _anything_ like Oliver Queen. The detective cuffs him, and as Oliver faces Felicity's direction, it's clear he sees the concern across her features. All he does is offer her a small wink, as if to say, _This will all blow over soon_. "...Attempted murder," Lance continues as he turns Oliver around, and then he growls in his face, "and murder." A dark smile lights the cop's face as they lead him out of the house.

Vaguely, Felicity takes notice of the family panicking in the background. Moira is grasping Walter's arm as though her life depends on it, Thea is crying, and the tall man who just stood on the other side of Oliver—Mr. Diggle, she remembers—is watching her intently.

She turns to him instantly. "I have no idea what to do," she says finally to him.

He offers a slight, sympathetic smile. "Try to ride out the storm," he says simply. "And find that lawyer he wanted."

* * *

If Felicity thought she was out of place at the Queen mansion, it's nothing compared to how she feels at the City Necessary Resource Initiative building. CNRI itself isn't all that impressive, but the lawyers parading around are dressed pretty nice for such modest salaries. Her panda flats certainly do not allow her to blend in here, and her wardrobe is a little too bright and quirky for these people. Her mission, she decides, is to get in and out as quick as she can.

She finds the woman she's looking for, so she asks, "Laurel Lance?" The woman whirls, taking in Felicity's appearance with a look of mild curiosity. "Do you have a moment?"

Laurel offers her a polished smile that Felicity thinks she must have practiced in a mirror for ages—but then she decides she's being a little catty. She doesn't even _know_ Laurel. "Sure," the lawyer responds sweetly. "What can I do for you?"

Felicity shakes her head. "Not for me," she corrects, then frowns. "I'm not sure if you've heard yet—about the thing with Oliver Queen?"

Laurel blanches, and the smile drops from her face. "No," she says in a flat tone, "I haven't."

Because it's clear she's not going to play along, Felicity sighs tiredly. "They've arrested him because the cops think he's the Vigilante." Laurel takes in a breath in surprise as Felicity pulls out the signed piece of paper. "This gives me authorization to hire you as his criminal attorney on his behalf." She hesitates before saying, "He wanted you—and he was very clear about that."

Laurel takes the piece of paper, examines it, then narrows her eyes at Felicity. "And who are you?" she asks, and Felicity can hear the _real_ question she wants answered: _Who are you to Oliver Queen?_

Felicity wants to answer her honestly, but she's not exactly sure what "honest" is in this situation. Finally, she says, "I'm Felicity Smoak. I did some computer work for Oliver. We're friends—sort of." She tells herself that's the truth, because they must be friends if he considers her trustworthy enough to do this for him.

"_Ollie_," she says, emphasizing the nickname as she crosses her arms, "doesn't have female friends."

Felicity bites back a retort—something along the lines of, _Well, there's a first time for everything_, or the meaner option of, _Maybe that's because I don't throw myself at him like a female cat in heat_. Instead, she goes with the diplomatic approach, shrugging slightly as she responds, "Like I said, it's hard to explain. I did some computer stuff, he laughed at my stupidity—that's basically it." For not the first time, she understands why all of her friends in college were male—it's less complicated that way. At least boys aren't so catty.

"Fine," she says after a long moment, snapping the word. "I'd never miss an opportunity to help Ollie." With that, she turns on her heel and leaves, making Felicity's only option to do the same.


	5. Electronic Repair

**Chapter: 5 - Electronic Repair  
Word Count: 3059**

**Notes: **A lot of you have been crying out for more Diggle, and I think this will fulfill all your needs for the time being. :) Just for tagging purposes, we're still in 1.05 Damaged (one of my all-time favorites), and we will be for the next chapter, too. Anyhow, reviews are much appreciated, if you feel so inclined.  
**  
And because of the 2000 hits on this over on AO3, I've posted "The Last of the Guard." **I think most of you will have read it by now, but I don't think I've noted that yet. Anyway, happy reading! :)

* * *

Felicity sits on her couch next to her dog with a Frankenstein computer that she's trying to rebuild, this time watching the detective duo trying to outsmart their rival. She agrees with the rival's assessment that how every fairytale needs a good villain, but then she thinks about the situation in Starling City with the Vigilante. Is he the hero or the criminal? It's a question she's been asking herself for a very long time, and one she can never seem to answer. It bothers her, though, because she believes puzzles are meant to be solved, and the Vigilante is definitely an unsolvable case at this point. She doesn't have enough information yet.

Still, it's a case she can't quite shake completely. She finds herself identifying more and more with the mysterious hooded crusader, and she tells herself he's not exactly the good guy in this scenario. Still, she sees that he's taking down a lot of really horrible human beings, and that comforts her. However, she thinks he could serve a greater good by taking on some of the lesser scum on the street—instead of just the big fish swimming around. But despite the fact that Starling's crime rates are down for the first time in years, she still reminds herself that he _kills people_. Bad people, sure, but people nonetheless, and she should remember that.

As if summoned by her thoughts, she hears the door on the fire escape attempt to pull open, but it's stopped by the inside-only lock she's placed on it since her last visit by the Vigilante. She pauses the show and heaves a breath, suddenly feeling very put-upon. She's not sure she can handle a double life as a Vigilante's IT specialist, even to solve the puzzle that is the Vigilante. But he's a curiosity in her life, and Felicity doesn't like unsolved cases. With another sigh, she pulls herself off the couch and steps into her bedroom.

Her posture changes instantly when she sees the green hood masking his facial features, but Saphira charges into the room barking loudly. She restrains the dog and hushes her, seeing what the dog also notices, but she opens the door anyway, brandishing the baseball bat. "I want to know what you're doing here and why you're wearing that," she demands with authority she doesn't feel. Her voice doesn't quaver, though, so that is something.

"What are you talking about?" he asks, but, even synthesized, the timbre of his voice is off, and it serves to confirm what she already believed to be true. He steps into the room, but she holds the baseball bat as if her life depends on it. She thinks for a moment how long it would take her to go for her phone in the meantime.

She rolls her eyes, putting one hand on her hip. "I may be blonde," she informs him, "but I'm not _that_ blonde. I'm talking about the fact that you aren't the Vigilante," she says flatly, "but I think you already knew that. You gave it a good go—and you could probably fool anyone else, but not me. You're taller than he is, a little more muscular, and Saphira is going nuts when she made friends with the Vigilante last time. Should I call the cops now because you're a psycho copycat, or are you here on his behalf?"

A distorted chuckle answers, but Felicity doesn't understand what's so funny. "He said you'd know the difference," the not-Vigilante responds, seemingly amused. "He also told me that, when you did, to tell you he hasn't forgotten about that printer he owes you for the last time."

The tension leaves her body instantly, and the baseball bat falls against the wall. She decides to trust him, if only because of the statement that could only have come from the Vigilante himself. "Come in here, and we'll talk about it," she says, giving herself an odd sense of déjà vu. It was only a few weeks ago that he—the _true_ Vigilante, she supposes—was standing in her bedroom and walking into her living area. They have to stop meeting like this.

He follows her into the living area, but he doesn't observe his surroundings the way his predecessor did, instead only focusing on her. "Tell me why you're here," she demands, still suspicious as she eyes him warily. He might have enough trust to parade around in another guy's green hood, but that doesn't mean she trusts him enough to be in her apartment. She thinks it's probably crazy that she's more comfortable with the Vigilante, but she knows that he, at least, isn't going to hurt her; he's had several opportunities, but each time she walks away unscathed. This guy, on the other hand, is a wild card.

"We seem to have a problem," he says carefully, before holding out a small, black electronic device. "I'm supposed to use these bugs tonight, but they're not working. Our friend said that you might be able to fix these?" It's a question, and she feels insulted by it. Of _course_ she's able to fix whatever problems they're having—she does this for a living. She wants to remind him of how awesome she is, but she doesn't think this is the time, despite how true her words would be.

She means to reach for the bugs, but she can't bring herself to do it. The not-Vigilante seems to understand, and carefully places them on the coffee table. When he steps back, she surges forward and grabs them, looking them over methodically. When she completes her assessment, she scoffs, "What did you do—get these from VH1?" She holds them up. "Because these are best of the eighties, my friend." She sighs at the lack of respect technology seems to get when the Vigilante is involved. "You know, the least you could do is pop for decent bugging equipment."

The not-Vigilante ignores her griping and asks the right question: "Can you provide us with some better equipment?" He says it quickly, as if it's imperative that he gets them this moment. Either that, or he wants to shut her up and be gone quickly, which Felicity figures to be a distinct possibility.

Felicity frowns. "I'm sure I could," she says finally, "but I don't really have the equipment here. I also don't carry bugging devices with me wherever I go. This might sound crazy to you, but, in case you haven't heard, illegal eavesdropping is _illegal_." She crosses her arms for emphasis. Even as she tells him that it's illegal, the logical part of her brain is already constructing blueprints for the Vigilante team to use on their nightly excursions. Then she wonders when she became such a criminal mastermind, and the moral part of her brain chides her for it.

He takes her outburst in stride. "Is there any way you could build anything better tonight? I have to have these planted by midnight." As soon as he says it, she glances up a the clock. Eight-thirty. That means she has about two hours to get everything together—an impossible task for most. But Felicity is _not_ most.

Instead of telling him he's out of luck, she instead examines the bug again before saying, "I think I can make these work for tonight with what I have here at the house, but next time? Tell our friend that he needs to give me a little advance warning. I can make these from scratch, but I have to have the equipment at QC to do it."

Without waiting for an answer, Felicity starts in on the conversion, swapping wires around here and there. The final product is just as bulky as the original, but she's proud of the end result. She admires the refined battery and the circuit rewired for optimal performance, but she figures it's the best she can do with the original product. After all, she concludes finally, she's an IT specialist, not a miracle worker.

The not-Vigilante seems just as satisfied as she does. He doesn't praise her, only offering, "He said you were good." The tone in his voice is different—something between amusement, surprise, and awe.

An odd burst of pride flows through Felicity, though she's not sure she should be proud of her wiretap-fixing skills. She replies instantly, "He said I was good? That's just insulting—I'm better than that." She makes sure to smile so she doesn't come off as bragging; it was just a joke, and her confidence in her skillset is something that most people don't quite understand. Felicity reaches out to hand her creations to him, but then changes her mind. "Do I _want_ to know what you plan to use these babies for?"

She doesn't expect an answer, but she gets one anyway. "We're trying to stop some gunrunners," is the swift reply, and she marvels at the efficiency of the statement. Just enough information to keep her curiosity satisfied, but not enough to get her into trouble if they're caught. That sort of efficiency makes her think he might be military or ex-military, but she keeps the observation to herself. She's not sure what they'd do if they thought she knew anything about them. She quickly promises herself that she won't look into it, but she knows that it's just a lie.

Felicity nods. "Glad to see he's going after someone besides rich billionaires. There's a lot of crime on Starling's streets, and he could definitely make a difference there." She crosses her arms. "So, which one of you is _the_ Vigilante? Or is it a position you share?"

Another chuckle answers her, and she thinks he's probably not so intimidating as the first Vigilante. "He's the Vigilante," is his answer. "I'm just filling in for the night."

She scoffs at the phrasing of his answer. "You're filling in? What, like a relief vigilante? How do you phrase _that_ on your résumé?" It comes off a little sarcastic, but she's genuinely curious.

The fake Vigilante doesn't answer this time, instead holds his hand out for the electronic devices she's repaired for the crime-fighting duo. Felicity silently drops them into his gloved hand, uncertain of what else she can say. She wants to tell him—to tell them _both_—to be careful, but she's sure that will come of as condescending. So she just crosses her arms as she watches him study her.

Finally, when she can't take the attention any longer, she walks toward her bedroom, saying over her shoulder, "I'll let you out." She doesn't hear him follow, but when she turns, he's on her heels.

He motions to the lock on her door. "He told me to remind you about that," he says quietly, an odd appraising tone entering his voice. "I'm glad I can tell him some good news."

Felicity rolls her eyes. "Well, I may not be a super-skilled vigilante by night," she snaps, not liking this protectiveness from both of them, "but I _can_ take care of myself, you know."

The man under the hood chuckles once more. "I'm sure you can," he replies, humoring her nicely, but Felicity thinks this might be worse than the overprotectiveness she's seen in the past. "Goodnight, Felicity."

Before she can respond to him, he's gone, leaving her to wonder why she decided to help the Vigilante in the first place.

* * *

When John Diggle walks into the Queen mansion, he's yet again reminded by the surreal nature that is now firmly entrenched in his life. He makes his way up the stairs and through the hallways to Oliver Queen's room, he knocks three times on the door, rolling his eyes. Oliver has made it clear he expects knocking to be a part of their arrangement; Diggle doesn't quite understand why—they're in this... whatever-the-hell-it-is together.

While he waits to be allowed entry, he thinks back on his encounter with Felicity Smoak, the girl who has apparently become their resident IT expert. He wasn't quite expecting the fire in her eyes—or the genuine smile on Oliver's face when he told Diggle about the printer and that she'd know the difference. For not the first time since he started bodyguarding Queen, he feels like he doesn't quite have the full picture.

"Come in," Oliver responds finally, and Diggle lets himself into the impersonal room that Oliver has yet to customize to the person he is, shutting the door behind him. But then Diggle thinks that this room _does_ reflect Oliver—it's clearly just a space to him, with no personality whatsoever. His _real_ life exists in the basement of the old Queen factory, not here.

Oliver looks up from his computer—a very nice one, which Diggle knows is also courtesy of Felicity Smoak. "How did it go?" Oliver asks flatly, watching Diggle again with those critical eyes.

Diggle crosses his arms as he looks at Oliver. "She fixed the busted lock over the fire escape. And she knew it wasn't you, just like you said, but she was willing to help me anyway, albeit a little reluctantly."

Oliver's eyes narrow immediately, his shoulders tensing as if for a fight, and Diggle marvels at how the mere mention IT girl can provoke emotion out of the stoic, reformed playboy. "What do you mean, '_reluctantly_'?" he demands, his tone turning dark. There's an odd ferocity and protectiveness in his voice, one befitting a jealous lover. Under normal circumstances, Diggle might decide to reiterate this fact aloud, but Oliver isn't teasing now, and Diggle is all too aware which one of them would win in a fight—and he's certain Oliver would gladly come to blows over Felicity Smoak.

Diggle holds up his hands in a calming gesture. "Nothing happened," he assures the younger man. "She didn't trust me because she knew I wasn't you—even after I mentioned the printer. That was the only reason she agreed to help me." He raises an eyebrow, daring Oliver to interrupt him again, but the younger man remains quiet. "She wasn't able to build a new bug, but she did repair the ones we had. She told me to tell you that you need to give her better notice next time, and she can hook you up with some better technology." He chuckles at the memory. "She says our stuff was best of the eighties."

Oliver actually smiles at that, so Diggle thinks it's time to ask the question he's been wanting to know the answer to since Oliver first mentioned Felicity. "Oliver, what exactly is this girl to you?"

The smile falls immediately, and Oliver's eyes narrow again. "That's not your concern," he says flatly. A long moment of silent, testosterone-fueled glowering continues between them for a long moment, but when Oliver sees that Diggle isn't going to give up that easily, he finally adds with a sigh, "She's just a resourceful computer technician I stumbled onto one night as the Vigilante. She offered to help me, and I accepted."

With one eyebrow lifted in skepticism, Diggle dares ask, "And she doesn't know who you are?"

Oliver gives him that smile that says, _I'm humoring you_ this time_, but don't expect it to happen again_. "She doesn't know the Arrow's identity," he phrases carefully. "She's met the Arrow and Oliver Queen separately, but she has nothing to connect the two."

Diggle frowns. "You know how weird it is that you refer to yourself in the third person, right?"

Oliver tries to hide a smile while pretending to ignore Diggle. After a moment, he says, "It's better for her not to know."

"It's better for her not to get involved," Diggle corrects. "She's a civilian with no training whatsoever. Her looking cute in a skirt isn't exactly the kind of skill we're looking for here." He admits he might be exaggerating slightly, since she's so handy with the electronic equipment, but the hyperbole serves to make his point quite nicely.

Oliver's tone turns dangerously protective and threating as he says, "We can protect her. That's why I can't tell her my name, Digg. If anyone thinks she knows who the Vigilante is, they would use her for leverage." He doesn't talk about how they would hurt her for information; Digg has seen enough of that to know what happens to captured prisoners.

Still, he acts as the voice of reason. "What about Detective Lance—the one who arrested you for being the Vigilante?"

Oliver fixes piercing eyes on Diggle, his expression unreadable as always. "I told him as the Arrow she wasn't involved. For now, Lance is perfectly happy to have me prosecuted for murder and to leave Felicity alone." He draws himself up taller in his seat, and Diggle can already sense the subject change that's coming. "Which is why I need you to follow those wiretaps. In a few days, I'm having a party here at the house. I need you to intercept an arms deal as the Arrow." He tilts his head to the side before asking, "You think you're up to it?"

Diggle knows Oliver is trying to light a fire under his pride, so he simply ignores that part of the conversation and focuses on the more important part. "You set this up," he accuses angrily, the feeling of being played leaving a bad taste in his mouth. "You _wanted_ to get caught, so that I could step in and pretend to be you while you're under house arrest." He takes a moment to examine the brilliant plan, and he has to admit, "You got caught so that the legal system itself could provide you with an iron-clad alibi. No one will protest that."

A smirk graces Oliver's face as he admits, "Exactly. Lance only wanted Felicity as means to a greater goal—me. And now she's off the hook because I've been arrested. But if I convince Lance he's barking up the wrong tree about this, it might be enough for him to doubt his judgment about Felicity." He sighs. "If not, we'll have to find a way to cover for her."

Then he says the words that prove he's no longer the selfish billionaire they expect him to be: "She's our responsibility now, Diggle, and we have to keep her safe."


	6. Old Hardware Removal

**Chapter: 6 - Old Hardware Removal  
Word Count: 4501**

**Notes:** This is probably my favorite chapter of Technical Assistance I've written thus far. It's my longest, too, at just over 4500 words. It was a bear to write, but I'm through it now. Also, there is a side story for this chapter. I'm going to let you get to it, though-happy reading! Reviews/comments are appreciated, if you have the time. :)

Also, this next week I'm probably going to be pretty much unreachable. Finals week. If you're waiting for a response from me, I promise it's coming. If you comment/review, I promise I'm not ignoring you-just incredibly busy. I'm sure all of you college students out there know that life shuts down for finals week, and all that's left is testing. :P

* * *

Felicity has to take a breath to steel herself as she walks into the Queen mansion, even for the second time, and she still thinks she's not good enough for this place. There's more money on the walls than she'll ever see in her life, and it's terrifying to be as klutzy as she is knowing there's a Ming Dynasty vase on display behind her. She waits in the entry hall because she isn't really sure where to go; the walk back to Oliver's room was a labyrinth, and there's no way she's going to attempt that journey on her own.

It doesn't help that there's such a crowd in the lobby, what with the party going on and all. But still, this is when Oliver told her to come pick up his old computer for parts, and she needed to get away from work before she went insane anyway. She'd be grateful for the interruption otherwise, but she never feels in place at the Queen mansion.

A familiar face from the tabloids comes up to her, dripping swagger, charm, and the promise of mischief. With his dark hair and eyes, Tommy Merlyn is even more attractive than the media makes him out to be, and she can understand now why there are so many rumors about his womanizing; there is just something innate about him that draws in the opposite sex—something that can't be explained by good looks or old money.

"You look a little lost," he says, but not in a way that indicates she doesn't need to be here. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Felicity shakes her head. "No, thank you, Mr. Merlyn," she offers, trying to be as professional as possible, since the last thing she wants is Tommy Merlyn flirting with her. "I was to pick up some old computer parts from Ol—Mr. Queen." She catches the slip that will give her away as being on more casual ground with Oliver. She realizes that she hasn't introduced herself. "I'm Felicity Smoak." By way of explanation for her presence, she says, "I'm in the IT Department at Queen Consolidated."

Tommy smiles knowingly—the little flirt—at her slip-up, catching it despite her best efforts. "Figures," he says with a laugh. "He always did know how to pick them." He appraises her in a way that makes her entire face burn. "They're always beautiful, but brainy, too? That's new." When she doesn't rise to the bait, he offers finally, "He's upstairs in his room, I think—had something to talk about with Laurel, his lawyer." She sees the shadow that crosses his face with that statement, and she wonders quietly if Tommy has some serious unrequited feelings for Laurel. At her blank look, he chuckles and asks, "Need a tour guide?" He offers his arm in a way she hopes is teasing.

She sighs before admitting defeat. "I think so," she admits sadly. "I've been through the upper floor once already, but something tells me it's going to take more than one attempt."

Tommy laughs at her voiced thoughts as he heads up the stairs, Felicity at his side. "I think so," he agrees. "This house was built over a few generations as land was purchased and graded, so it's a little winding in places. I think maze is the nice way of putting it."

"I'm still expecting to find angel statues and an Aplan temple up above us," she agrees, but then turns crimson as she realizes what she's said—and to _Tommy Merlyn_, of all people. If she ever had "cool" status, it would have been revoked for this moment alone.

He shoots her a puzzling glance, slowing in walking pace. "_What?_" he asks after a long moment, smiling a little as he takes in her reaction.

Felicity hides her now-red face with her hands for a moment before trying to salvage it. "You know, a maze of the dead?" she tries nonchalantly. "Three levels of statuary and maze-like passageways. It's—" She cuts herself off. "And I'm trying to pretend I'm not a nerd, but I'm only making it worse."

Tommy chuckles. "Do you do this all the time?" he asks. "And does anyone ever understand?"

Felicity sighs. "Yes and yes, unfortunately," she responds, waving her hands around a little. "It's how I communicate—I don't understand why. And my fellow IT gremlins in the Satan Pit—that's what I call the IT department—always know what I'm talking about." She huffs. "It's not as much fun with you... _normal_ people, though. Oliver has a perfectly reasonable excuse, but there's no plausible reason why you _wouldn't_ have caught that."

He stops short at something she says, and she actually has to turn back to look at him. Tommy's eyes are wide, the playful smile falling off his face. "You actually make pop culture references around _Oliver?_" he asks, as though it's supposed to be surprising.

"All the time," she assures him, not understanding the point. "He told me he doesn't mind, even if he doesn't know what I'm talking about." Then she remembers what he said to her the last time they met. "I know you've known Oliver all of your life and everything, but can I offer a little advice?" Tommy nods mutely, smiling a little, and she takes that as permission to say, "I think he probably misses the normalcy that is pop culture references. He doesn't really seem all that shy about _hinting_ at the island—just so long as you don't ask him about it."

Tommy surges forward again, smiling that playful smile she's come to expect. "Thanks for the advice," he answers, and Felicity thinks she might have just made a friend—albeit reluctantly—in Tommy Merlyn.

His phone rings abruptly, effectively ending the conversation. He looks down at the screen for a moment before frowning and saying, "Sorry, Smoaky," he says with a wink as Felicity wonders when she earned the nickname, "but I've got to take this." He points to a room two doors down on the left. "Oliver should be in there, but, if I were you, I'd knock first. He's a little touchy about that these days." Before she can respond, he's halfway down the hall, speaking in hushed tones to his caller.

Felicity walks up to the door, but she can hear soft conversation beyond, so she instead waits for them to finish. She studies a Degàs on the wall for a long moment, taking in its beautiful hues. She's always loved art, but she never thought she'd see an original master on the wall anywhere but a museum.

Without warning, the door to Oliver's room flies open, and Laurel walks out in a hurry with a dazed, fearful look on her face. She doesn't even acknowledge Felicity in her flight, walking down the halls in a huff. Behind her, Oliver calls out in a broken voice that hurts Felicity's heart, "Laurel, you don't have to go!" Even that doesn't stop Laurel, though; she just keeps moving.

Felicity stands in the hallway for an awkward moment, not knowing if she should approach Oliver yet or not. Clearly something has transpired here between the two of them, and she's not sure if she should intrude. But then she decides that it would be more suspicious to be discovered in the hallway, so she musters up her courage and knocks on the door frame.

Oliver smiles slightly when he sees her, but his eyes still make him look like someone shot his dog. "Hey, Felicity," he says quietly, casually. "Thanks for showing up. I would have brought those computers to you, but I happen to be under house arrest right now." He rolls his eyes in typical playboy fashion—but at least this time it's not an act. "Thank you for hiring Laurel for me—I think I'm going to need her, since they've accused me of being the Vigilante."

Felicity scoffs before rolling her own eyes. "No problem," she assures him. "I just hope they clear up this misunderstanding before somebody catches Detective Lance with egg on his face. If it makes you feel any better, I know they have the wrong guy." It's not an understatement; Felicity has encountered the Vigilante on multiple occasions now, and Oliver Queen is the _last_ person in the world who could be the man under the green hood.

Oliver smiles, but it's forced again. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. Laurel said almost the same thing, so I think we can win the case—even if it _does_ go to court."

The whipped-puppy look on Oliver's face at the mention of Laurel hurts Felicity's heart. She means to say something inspiring, something kind and wise that might ease his pain. Instead, though, she somehow ends up blurting, "I can always come back, if you need me to... for whatever reason."

Oliver's eyes narrow before understanding flickers across his face. He sighs sadly as he falls onto his cushy little sofa as though all the energy has suddenly been drained from him. "How much did you hear?" he asks after a long moment.

Felicity sighs before doing that awkward laugh she can't quite help. "Enough to know you probably don't want to see me standing here right now," she admits slowly.

She's just about to turn on her heel to leave when he says, seeming at a loss for words, "No, please." A sigh, then finally, "I'd like you to stay. Could you shut the door, please?"

Felicity hesitates, but she doesn't say no and she does as he asks. She honestly has no idea what to say; refusing Oliver when he's had enough disappointment is too much for her, and she doesn't want to seem insensitive by carting computers around while he's in a talkative mood. He seems to understand her hesitance, and he motions to the cushion next to him. She obliges him by sitting down.

It's a long time before they exchange words, but Oliver is the first to start the conversation. His words are slow, hesitant, as he offers, "I had this fantasy in my head, of how life would be after I finally got back." He interrupts himself with a breathy laugh that has no humor to it at all. "I thought it would be easy to come back because I dreamed about it all the time. I had it in my head that I would come back, be part of this happy family, and..." he hesitates before finally confessing, "patch things up with Laurel."

Felicity still doesn't think he's ready for her to speak, so she lets him continue. "Sometimes that was all I thought about on the island—all that kept me going—was knowing that I _had_ to set things right with Laurel. I know she hates me—and I don't blame her—but I feel like I have to find some way to earn her forgiveness."

This time, when he pauses, he looks at Felicity expectantly, anticipating an answer. She points to herself as she asks, "You want _my_ opinion on this? Are you sure? Because you might not like what I have to say." She considers it fair to warn him before tearing him apart. Oliver's eyebrows knit together, as if he's bracing himself for the onslaught, before he nods once in affirmation.

Felicity draws a long breath. "I think you're right," she starts slowly, gaining speed as she goes, "I think those thoughts on the island _were_ a fantasy. Of course your family isn't happy right now. You're mourning the loss of your father, all the while trying to adjust to life at home again—with a new stepfather. Your family is trying to adjust to the miracle of having a loved one returned to them long after they thought you were dead. It's going to be like starting all over again. As for Laurel, though..." She takes a deep breath as Oliver looks at her expectantly again. "Laurel's angry because two people she loved betrayed her. Sara was a grown woman and she _chose_ to step on that boat, Oliver—so don't let her convince you that you're responsible for her death. Laurel, though, deserves the right to be pissed because you cheated on her, but that's it. Of course, nothing's that simple. You survived, Sara died, and now it's easier to blame you."

Felicity breaks into the part of her speech that she believes to be the most important part of the conversation. "But you can't fix any of that. In my opinion—which is awesome, by the way..." She has to stop because the wide smile on Oliver's face is so blinding that it causes her to lose all coherent thought. A moment later, she continues, "In my obviously-not-humble opinion, what you have to do now is figure out _why_ you're so intent upon fixing things with Laurel. If it's because you love her and she's that elusive 'one' everybody talks about, then you should do whatever it takes to make things up with her. Because it's the worst thing in the world to live your life and realize that the person by your side isn't the one you want to see next to you. If not, though, you should say your peace, tell her what a mistake you made. And, well, if she doesn't forgive you, you have to find a way to deal with that. And if she's toxic—either because you love her or because you've used her as your coping mechanism for the past five years—you need to run as fast as you can in the opposite direction."

Oliver smiles after a very long moment. "When did I get such a wise friend?" he muses aloud, and even though Felicity knows it's flattery, she can't stop the warm feeling from spreading.

She covers it with a scoff. "Please," she remarks dryly, "Tommy is _not_ a wise friend. He's more interested in chasing skirts than giving good, solid life advice."

Oliver's eyes flicker with recognition and something else Felicity can't place—something primal and decidedly male. "You met Tommy?" he asks in a dangerously low tone.

She opens her mouth to answer, but she's interrupted by a knock at the door. "Mr. Queen?" a light, male voice asks from the other side. "Are you entertaining up here? Can I bring you anything to drink?"

Oliver winces before rising from his seat in a single fluid moment. "Hold that thought," he says playfully to Felicity, before going to the door. Before he even opens it, he starts in, "Thank you, but I'm—" He opens the door then, but stops talking. Felicity can barely see the gun before Oliver somehow manages to fling it out of the other man's hand. The fall to the ground then, and she can't quite see everything from where she's now standing in front of the couch.

She vaguely thinks she should call a cop, but before she can turn the thought into action, the intruder manages to grab the gun again, and a shot goes off that just barely misses her head. Felicity reacts by ducking, and she actually gets to see Oliver fight. If her life weren't in danger, she'd be impressed; the other guy is skilled, sure, but Oliver might be better. Oliver does some sort of ninja-like pressure point thing, and the guy drops the gun. Oliver slides it across the hardwood floor, where it lands at Felicity's feet.

Thinking fast, she slides the gun under the couch, where the intruder can't see it, and then grabs her cell phone to call the cops. After she manages to get the phone in hand, she hears a strangled cry, and she sees that the guy has Oliver in some sort of hold, and that he's losing. Felicity sees the old computer parts sitting in front of Oliver's desk, about five feet to her left, so she grabs the keyboard—which, she vaguely notes, has the wrong connector anyway—and throws it in the general direction of the bad guy's head. Somehow, it strikes home, and he groans and rolls to his right as keys fly everywhere.

He rolls toward the couch, to where the gun is, so of course he sees it. Felicity looks over to see Oliver gasping for breath, blinking profusely as he comes out of the near blackout—so of course he's no help to her as the killer advances toward her. She thinks he's probably going after her out of spite now; after all, _no one_ wants to report to their boss that they were hit in the head with a keyboard by some random blonde girl.

She throws the mouse at him then, and he groans as it hits him in the eye. She turns back to the stack of computer parts and realizes she's out of things to throw; the old monitor probably weights a solid thirty pounds and the tower more. Instead, she dances around the couch, about to give into that primal flight instinct, when she sees Oliver still lying there. She figures she wouldn't be able to drag him; Oliver is about twice her size, and she's not that strong. She isn't going to leave him, she decides firmly.

Her moment of indecision costs her, though, as the now angry man snatches her up by her ponytail, holding his gun at her temple, point-blank. "You, I'll kill for free," he snarls in a raspy voice that indicates a love of cigarettes stemming from youth.

When the shot rings out, it's foreshadowed by a slamming sound, and it's not from the direction Felicity expects. The pressure on her ponytail eases, and something wet splatters across one side of her face. It's only when she sees the red on her glasses that she understands what it is, and she doesn't dare look behind her. Instead, she focuses her attention on the door, and she doesn't think she's ever been so glad to see Detective Lance in her life.

"You okay, kid?" he asks her, breathing accelerated from adrenaline.

Felicity is breathless because of the cold suddenly rushing through her, but manages to nod. Then Oliver's hand is on her shoulder, and he's offering her a smile, even as the bruises are starting to appear around his throat. "I think we should sit down," he offers carefully, quietly, and then he leads her toward his _bed_, of all places, but away from the desk, couch, and events that just transpired.

Felicity is too numb to really understand what is happening, but Oliver disappears for a moment, but then he returns with a white cloth, sitting down beside her. He turns to the detective. "Is it okay if I...?" he makes a general gesture that Lance seems to understand because he nods.

Carefully, as though she's made of glass or paper or something much more delicate, Oliver reaches for her chin, turning her head away from him so that he can wipe the blood from her face. He doesn't talk to her, doesn't ask any questions, but just gives her time to gather her thoughts as he rubs all the spatter away. She wonders at first why he's so kind and calm, but then it dawns on her through the fog that he's probably seen things like this before on the island—if not worse.

When he stops, she says, "Thank you," in a very thick voice. She convinces herself she is _not_ going to cry or break down, but her voice does tremble as it comes out. "Why am I cold?" she wonders, but then realizes the words actually left her mouth.

Oliver offers her a tentative half-smile, one corner of his mouth starting to reach up. "You're in shock," he explains in that same tone. "It's perfectly normal." He offers her a different cloth than the one he just used, as if the sight of blood again will cause her to go to pieces. "Do you want to wipe off your glasses?"

She snatches it out of his hand. "While I appreciate your concern," she snaps at him, a little embarrassed that she's the only one in the room who isn't calm, "I'm not going to fall apart." She rubs her glasses a little too hard.

Her vision is a little blurry, but she thinks she can see Oliver hold up his hands in a gesture of defeat. "I didn't think you were," is his only response, but his tone makes her think that he might be smirking.

When she puts her glasses back on, she can see Detective Lance leaning against the wall, watching the two of them interact. Felicity flushes a little as she realizes how misleading the moment might have been. Lance just crosses his arms and asks the million dollar question of the night: "Anyone want to tell me what the hell just happened?"

* * *

Quentin Lance takes a long moment to study Queen and the Smoak girl as they both sit on a sofa in the Queens' den. Felicity looks a little tired, and she sits on the opposite end of the sofa from Queen, which is probably the best place in the room from him. Mrs. Queen and Mr. Steele stand off to one side, observing the events, and the Queen girl sits between them, holding her brother's hand—more for her benefit than his, if you ask Lance.

He thinks it's interesting how Queen and Felicity are so far apart now, when just a few minutes ago, Queen practically had her in his lap as he cleaned some of the spatter off of her face. Her clothes still bear a spot or two of red—as does her hair—but she actually seems okay now. Lance didn't really get the chance to watch them together the last time, and he thinks that, for two people who didn't know each other a few weeks ago, they seemed _awfully_ cozy. He also can't say he didn't get a vindictive kick out of watching her snap at him for being delicate—a word Lance wouldn't ever have associated with Oliver Queen before today.

"Thank you, Detective," the Queen kid says in a tone that actually sounds sincere for a change. Lance doesn't miss the way his eyes flicker over to Felicity for the briefest of moments. "How did you know we were in trouble?"

Lance snorts at the strange twist events have taken. "I didn't," he replies quickly. "They lost the signal for your tracker." He points down at the kid's ankle device, the plastic box battered from the fight. "I thought you were trying to make a run for it. Mind filling me in?"

"I really don't know what happened," Queen admits slowly. "I opened the door, and some guy with a gun tries to shoot me. I guess I knocked the gun out of his hand, and he attacked me. We fought, and then he was able to strangle me." He squints, assessing Felicity as if to confirm it. "I'm a little blurry after that," he says, more to Felicity than to Lance.

She takes up the conversation with no hesitation whatsoever, as though she's just expected to speak now. "Well, I scurried back out of the way and was going to call the cops, but then I saw... _him_ trying to choke Oliver, and—" She stops, turning crimson, before continuing awkwardly, "Well, there was an old computer sitting on the floor—which I was supposed to get tonight, by the way—and I picked up the keyboard and threw it at him." By the end, her voice takes on a high pitch, and her eyes widen as if she can't believe her own actions.

Lance is surprised to hear Queen chuckle. "Of course you did," he says sarcastically, voice coated with amusement, "because anyone else would have tried to run."

She huffs, crossing her arms angrily. "Last time I save your life, buster," she snaps at him, and Queen just continues to look at her with that half-smile on his face. She turns back to Lance before continuing, "Anyway, keys flew everywhere—it was a huge mess." She turns back to Oliver. "Sorry about that, by the way." Before he can respond, she's back to her story, but the alternating is starting to give Lance a headache. "I think it ticked him off, so he decided to forget Oliver and come after me." It's the first time Lance notices that she addresses the heir to a billion-dollar corporation by his first name. "I threw the mouse at him next, and I think he'd have a really nice black eye right about now—you know, if he wasn't dead." She says it so casually, as though ten minutes ago she wasn't going through shock. "I was about to run for it, but then I saw that Oliver was alive, and I just couldn't—" Her voice breaks on the last word, and she stops talking instantly. Instead of continuing, she just says, "You know the rest, I guess."

Lance does know the rest, but what he doesn't know is what's happening between Queen and this pretty, innocent girl in front of him. Queen leans around his sister, smiling at the girl. "Hey, Felicity?" he calls, getting her attention immediately. "Thank you."

She just nods before standing up far too quickly, stumbling a little. Queen is on his feet instantly. "You okay?" is his question this time, to which she nods shortly, eyes narrowing.

Before they can start another round of bickering, Lance clears his throat. "Ankle, Queen," he demands abruptly, and Queen obliges. Lance unlocks the ankle monitor efficiently, and, by way of explanation, offers, "The Vigilante was spotted stopping a weapons deal across town twenty minutes ago." He watches all of them as he delivers the news; he finds Queen to be pretty unsurprised by the whole ordeal—which agrees with him being innocent—but he doesn't miss the flicker of comprehension in Felicity's eyes. His intuition sparks; she's in on whatever is happening in this city, and he needs to find out what. But carefully—the Vigilante did threaten her life, after all. Though it pains him to say it, Lance does finish with, "You're free to go."

He murmurs thanks and Felicity offers her congratulations. Oliver turns to her immediately, ignoring his family. "I'll take you home," he offers quietly. She starts to argue, but he cuts her off with, "I need to do this." She stops arguing instantly, just nodding once. Oliver ushers her out into the hallway, and it's the last thing Lance sees of them for the night. It does get him thinking, though. Maybe he was wrong about Oliver Queen after all.

But then he shakes his head, and thinks he might be going soft in his old age. The man's a killer, and Lance _will_ see him behind bars.


	7. Person Location Services

**Title: Person Location Services  
Word Count: 3109**

**Notes: **I am emotionally dead after last night's episode, but I'm now finished with finals week (thank goodness), and ready to crank out some more Technical Assistance. The good news for you all is that I've already finished the chapter due for _next_ Thursday, so we're ahead of schedule!

I hope this chapter helps with last night—it's a lot fluffier than I usually write. It still drives the plot, of course, but it just feels fluffy. (Maybe because I don't do fluffy well.) I don't know how to explain it. *throws chapter at readers* Here! :P I always love to hear what you think, but thanks for reading! :)

* * *

Felicity nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears her window open behind her at work. It's a quiet night, and she doesn't expect any visitors, especially on her floor, since most of the business leaders don't want to get caught dead in the nerdy IT department. It takes her a long moment to return her breathing to normal, and it's only then that she turns around, only to find herself staring at the Vigilante's chest. She tilts her head up higher to focus on his face, but she can't even make out his eye color between the shading from the mask and his hood.

"You know," she starts, her voice a little high from the surprise, "I'm starting to think that you're _trying_ to scare the crap out of me." She tries to sound collected and calm, but she knows her voice is too fluttery to pull that off properly.

Some sort of breathy sound goes through the voice synthesizer before he responds, "If I meant to frighten you, I would have you hanging by your ankles down at the docks until you told me what I wanted to know." The sinister statement sends a chill down her spine, but then she notices that one corner of his mouth is upturned. Was that a _joke?_ Since when did the terror of Starling City make jokes? Something tells her this relationship has made a turn for the insane, and all Felicity wants for a moment is to get off this roller coaster ride _now_.

Still, she responds in kind, her voice not as high this time as she teases, "What, did your mother never tell you how to say 'please'?" She thinks it's a little silly, but this is the most normal conversation she's had with anyone in months—and she's discussing this with _the Vigilante_, of all people. Her life has suddenly hit a new low, she can't help but think.

The Vigilante, for his part, seems amused by her statement, but then the partial smile falls from his face as he grows serious again. "No," he says finally, slowly, "I don't think she ever did." It surprises Felicity for a moment that he's so willing to share details about himself, but then she thinks that it might be a tender subject. She knows her own mother is a sensitive spot, so she doesn't press any further.

Instead, she dares ask, "What have you brought me tonight, Mr. Arrow? A shot-up laptop? A police server hack? Or do you just want me to make bugs again?" She waves to the chair near her desk. "Sit down—you make me nervous when you stand over me impressively like that."

He does as she asks, but it makes him no less intimidating, with his arms crossed over his chest and the impressive glare he wears. As he goes through the motions, his muscles ripple; Felicity is reminded once again how tightly that green leather clings. He wears it better than his counterpart she met the last time, she thinks. Not-Vigilante was pretty impressive, sure, but the Vigilante's strength is more understated. Felicity shakes her head a couple times to clear it so she can stop ogling a man who kills people. Still, Felicity reminds herself that it's okay to look, just so long as she returns to reality afterward.

His glare is quickly replaced by an almost smile, though, when he responds, "I thought I'd change things up this time. I'm looking for someone who might be part of the Royal Flush Gang."

"Royal Flush Gang?" she repeats, that paranoid tone creeping into her voice. It was just a few days ago that she was telling Oliver that the Vigilante should go after criminals like them. Her thoughts spill out as something akin to, "Do I need to check my clothes for bugs?" When he tilts his head and doesn't answer, she continues, "I was just discussing with a friend how you could do so much more good in this city if you'd stop going after billionaires exclusively and start trying to stop the _real_ criminals running around."

He's quiet for a long moment, but when he responds, it's vague. "I don't like the idea of criminals hurting innocent bystanders in my city," he says finally, his tone a little possessive.

"_Your_ city?" Felicity repeats. "Last time I checked, this city is pretty much owned by the Queens and the Merlyns. Which means you probably don't own more than a green hood, a bow, and some really pointy arrows." He lets out a breath, either in irritation or amusement, as she turns her back to him, flexing her fingers over her keyboard. "Now, who am I looking for?"

"His name is Derek Reston," the Vigilante responds quickly. "He's a Starling City resident. I tried doing some research myself, but I haven't found anything."

Felicity nods, agreeing with the sad truth of it all. "Google can only do so much, my friend." She hits a few keys to do her own research and frowns at her results. "Unfortunately, your buddy Derek doesn't leave a long Internet trail behind him. No social media accounts—not even a MySpace that has pictures of you with that _one_ horrible haircut you had for two weeks in 2003." Softer, she mutters, "I still haven't lived that down." She pulls up a different screen and starts typing code into it.

"What are you doing?" the Vigilante asks her, leaning closer so that he can see her computer screen. She can feel his breath on her neck as he watches her, and her fingers fumble over the keys for a moment. She tries to tell herself she's afraid, but she's not afraid of him anymore. What she really feels is comfortable with his close presence, as though he's some sort of guardian angel instead of the vigilante that most of Starling City has learned to fear.

"Exploratory server surgery," she mutters distractedly, staring at her screen. She's barely paying attention to him now; she's been known to become so interested in her work that she forgets the world around her. Of course, she can't exactly forget the Vigilante, but he's no longer her priority. All that matters is the string of code she's typing.

"What?" he asks, demanding clarification. Felicity can't see his face, but she can guess his expression: brow furrowed, mouth slanted downward, head tilted ever so slightly to the side. Then it scares her that she knows the Vigilante so well.

"Exploratory server surgery," she repeats, slower this time. When he still doesn't respond, she continues, "You know—bridging the digital gap between employee and visitor? Performing unscheduled file maintenance of non-client systems? Warming my hands on the inside of a firewall?" When he still doesn't respond, she huffs in irritation. "_Hacking_, braniac. _That's_ what I'm doing."

She frowns as she looks at the screen for Starling City Bank that appears on her screen. "Let's see... Derek Reston hasn't touched his bank account in close to four years." She tilts her head to the side. "Makes sense, I guess, since the Royal Flush Gang started up about four years ago." A few more keystrokes, and another screen shows itself. "Last employment history was about seven years ago at... _oh_." She stops as she reads the words.

"Where?" the Arrow demands quickly, his voice just behind her right ear. It sends a shiver down her spine, but she keeps her mind on business. She's already let her thoughts run wild once; doing it again is inviting unnecessary risks.

"He used to work at Queen Manufacturing. Apparently, when the company was sold, all the employees got nothing—Robert Queen was able to get better lawyers and get out of all the union contracts. All the employees were fired on the spot with no pension, no severance—the heartless bastard even weaseled out of paying insurance benefits." She sighs. "I'm suddenly thrilled to realize that Oliver Queen is _nothing_ like his father. I can't see him doing this to fifteen hundred loyal employees."

"You shouldn't idolize a person you don't even know," the Vigilante responds darkly.

Felicity turns around in her chair, surprised for a moment to find his strong jawline only inches from her face. It takes her far too long to pull herself out of the haze and remember what she was talking about. She jabs a finger into his chest. "Listen, buster," she snaps, feeling that angry fire starting to build within her, "Oliver Queen is my friend. Do you understand that? He's _off-limits_. You don't say bad things—_incorrect_ bad things, by the way—and you _certainly_ don't go after him. As of this moment, the Queen family is officially off-limits, okay? That family has been through Hell and back and they don't need _you_ to run around in your tight leather pants and put arrows in them. You got that?"

He nods once, but both corners of his mouth turn up. "Are you complaining about my pants?" he asks, sounding almost incredulous.

"_God_ no," Felicity replies instantly, but then her face heats as she realizes her tone implies she likes them far too much (which, she has to admit, she does). She stares at him awkwardly for a moment before turning back to her computer and focusing on business. "The last credit card statements from Reston showed that he liked to frequent a bar just down from the old Queen factory. Old habits die hard—maybe he still hangs out there"—she chuckles awkwardly—"you know, when he's not robbing banks."

As she turns back to him to see his expression, he says, "Felicity, you're amazing."

She huffs. "It's true, but amazing doesn't pay my bills. Say thank you with gifts." Her snarky response is meant to be a joke, and she's pleased to see it makes the corners of his mouth turn upward a little. Then she remembers that this is the Vigilante, and she should only be pleased to see him leave. "Thank you," she says, serious this time.

"No, thank _you_," he replies slowly. He hesitates for a moment before placing a hand on her shoulder, hesitating so that she's aware of what he's going to do. She surprises herself because she doesn't even flinch this time. "You're risking a lot by helping me—don't think that I don't recognize that." His tone is both sincere and appreciative under that modulator, and Felicity thinks she's seeing a whole new side of this man who has started to frequent her life.

"Good luck out there," she says finally, as he rises from his seat. "You know where to find me if you need anything." She hesitates before turning in her chair and picking up a sticky note from her desk. She writes her cell phone number on it before turning around, holding it between her finger. Before she can back down, she stands up and sticks it to his leather jacket, the fluorescent pink contrasting ridiculously with the dark green of his jacket. "And do me a favor and _call me_ if you're about to get yourself killed and a little technical assistance could be enough to save your life."

He pulls the sticky note from his jacket with a half-smile on his face, before unzipping his jacket and sticking it to the inside on the left. "Thank you," he says slowly, "but I don't have a phone. Something tells me I can't get a contract with any of the carriers."

Felicity snorts, rolls her eyes. "Please," she drawls. "Burner phones, my friend. No contracts, no names, no identification—especially if purchased with cash in a store that doesn't have security cameras. Find yourself one, and then you'll be able to contact whomever you like." She holds up her smartphone before winking. "Don't worry, though—I'm encrypted." At the confused set of his mouth, she adds, "Oh, like _you_ want Uncle Sam watching _your_ every move. I think you're being a bit judgmental."

He chuckles softly before turning back to the window. He stops for a moment, turning back to her. "Goodnight, Felicity." Without waiting for her to respond, he fires an arrow to a building across the street and rappels down it like he's Spider-Man or something.

"Well, that was slick," she mutters to herself before gathering her things. She said she'd work later than eight, but who could work after an encounter like _that?_

* * *

Oliver can't believe he's returning to the same building twice in less than twenty-four hours, but visiting Queen Consolidated today is a must. At least, he thinks, he's using the front door this time; he's starting to forget what the normal entry procedure in a building is supposed to be. His first instinct is to go to the IT Department, as he's been wont to do over the last few weeks, but today's visit isn't about seeing Felicity—it's about seeing Walter.

As he disembarks the elevator on the top floor of the Queen Consolidated building, he thinks of how much he absolutely _hates_ being here. It just isn't the same place without his father, and he dislikes being the center of everyone's attention, now that he's been away from the press, the prying eyes, and the glamor for five years.

Walter's secretary tries to stop Oliver as he charges into the room, but Oliver won't hear of her objections and goes to see his stepfather immediately. "Oliver," the Englishman says, nonplussed as ever, "it's always nice to see you here—where you belong." Oliver's family has been pushing him to become a part of Queen Consolidated since the day he arrived in Starling City again, but the last thing he wants is to be burdened by the weight of another responsibility. Tracking down the names on his father's list is enough pressure for Oliver—especially since Felicity unknowingly convinced him to apprehend Starling's criminals, too. "I take it this isn't a social visit."

"No," Oliver agrees. "It isn't." He hesitates, trying to find a way to ask for his favor without ruining her reputation. "I think you remembered that I hired Felicity Smoak to build my computer for me."

Walter chuckles at the name, showing that she clearly leaves the same impression on everyone. "Yes," Walter agrees, "she's quite a clever girl—a valuable asset to us here." He pauses, clearly thinking of a delicate way to phrase things. "We recruited her out of college three years ago—and we're quite lucky, it appears. I believe she turned down several offers with large software conglomerates to work with us."

It shouldn't surprise Oliver, but it does. "Really?" he asks, wondering why confusion coats his tone. He should know by now that she's ridiculous, though it seems to be one of her better qualities.

Walter nods solemnly. "I haven't heard the story directly from her, mind you, but I do believe there were some offers from American Micro Devices, Intel, IBM, and Apple. She actually wrote most of the code for the version of Linux we use here at the office." He nods, smiling slightly. "Though I'm sure this news hardly surprises you."

"Not at all," Oliver agrees. He makes a face. "The thing is, I'm really pleased with my computer, but she has refused to let me pay her for it. I'd like to show my appreciation, though." He frowns, mostly for show. "I was thinking—it's about time for the annual bonuses, right?" At Walter's nod of affirmation, Oliver continues, "I thought that maybe I could match her company bonus—anonymously, of course. I think she'd be more likely to take it if she thought she earned it for her work at Queen Consolidated."

Walter gives him that appraising look for not the first time. "You'd make a shrewd businessman, Oliver," he says finally, with a slight smile. "I would be pleased to help you with that. If you would leave a check with my secretary, I could help you with that." He looks up a few records on his computer before saying, "It appears that Miss Smoak stands to receive a five-thousand dollar bonus this year."

It takes Oliver a ridiculous amount of time to write out the check—it's apparently a skill his hands have forgotten in the past five years—but he matches the five thousand dollars without a second thought. She's worth it, he decides, and money is the only way he can think of to express his gratitude. He doesn't know her well enough to purchase a gift, and he doesn't really think she'd appreciate the grand display of a bouquet of flowers.

"You know," Walter starts casually, instantly making Oliver's hackles raise, "I think it's quite time you took your place as head of this company. I know you could run it far better than I in the long-term. I could stay on to help you through the first trying months—"

"Thank you," Oliver interrupts, "but I think you're doing a wonderful job, Walter." Irritated by the battery he's received for the past few weeks, he continues, "And I think everyone has forgotten that I spent the last five years on a deserted island, not earning my MBA."

Walter nods to concede his point. "As you like," he says finally. "I would certainly never want you to think you're not welcome in your own company."

"And I appreciate that, Walter," Oliver concedes, deciding against his better judgment that he might like the man, "but I don't think I'm CEO material. This was my father's corporation"—the words are painful as he forces them out in past tense—"and I think he understood that I never wanted any part of it."

"And I think that Robert would be proud of you for choosing your own path," Walter responds carefully, as if he's afraid of upsetting Oliver. It doesn't, though—Oliver is certain that his father would be proud of his plan to save Starling City.

"Thank you," is his response, though, and he nods before leaving. He agrees completely; Robert wanted nothing more than to write his wrongs, and Oliver is doing that for him. But Oliver is choosing his own path in how to implement his plan—and choosing whom he wishes to share it with. Diggle was an obvious choice—Oliver knew from the beginning that he would ask Diggle to aid him in his goal—but Felicity was an unexpected turn for the best.

Felicity. The name reminds him that he still hasn't made things completely right with her, even after the bonus.

After all, he still owes her a printer.


	8. Wi-Fi Access Troubleshooting & Diagnosis

**Chapter: 8 - Wireless Access Troubleshooting and Diagnosis  
Word Count: 4090**

**Notes:** I think this is my favorite chapter posted so far. :) I'm pretty proud of how the Oliver/Felicity scene turned out, as well as the bonus story. I think it's a pretty fun chapter, but I'll let you see what you think. ;) Reviews/comments are much appreciated, though I do appreciate that you just read this. :) Thank you!

* * *

Felicity is glad to be home, with the only thing separating her from comfort and bliss being a locked door to which she has the key. It was a bad day because she actually had to dress up for her employee review with her boss, and she's not equipped to run around in heels all day doing office work, especially in her favorite pink, gray, and black dress—which she's come to realize is a little too short and hugs far too nicely for office work. And of course she ran out of her apartment late, so her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail instead of being styled properly. Her day has been spent crawling around in office spaces, so she can no longer feel her feet—which is good because, before they went numb, they felt like someone was jabbing needles into them.

Just as she's about to turn the key on her door and sink into a blissful marathon of ice cream and sci-fi gloriousness, a voice calls from behind her, "Felicity!" She's so tired that she doesn't even recognize the voice, just turns on her aching heels toward whoever it is. She wishes for a moment she was a violent person so she can slap him for interrupting her plans for a fun night in.

Her eyes light up in surprise as she sees the man who dares stand in front of her and interrupt her planning of an interesting evening. "Oliver," she says, breathless in her surprise. He's gorgeous as always, but this time in jeans and a long-sleeved pullover and not a suit. Then she feels a paranoid feeling creep up on her. "What are you doing here?"

He offers her a rueful almost-smile. "I wanted to see you about some technical things," he explains, holding up the laptop she built for him under one arm. "I tried to catch you at the office, but they told me you'd already left for the night. I hope you didn't mind me stopping by—the desk clerk said it was okay for me to come up." His eyes wander over her figure in a way that doesn't offend her—it doesn't imply that he sees her as a conquest, but rather expresses interest in the difference in her attire. "You look nice," he offers hesitantly, as if he isn't certain how she'll take the compliment.

"Thanks," she answers, flushing with the unwanted attention. "And that's perfectly fine," she assures him tiredly, now that she sees her paranoia is completely unfounded. She winces. "I hope you don't mind, but I'm probably not going to be a great hostess tonight—bad day at the office." She turns her key and motions him in after the door swings open. "Come on in, take off your skin, rattle around in your bones," she offers, surprising herself by using the old saying from the latter part of her childhood.

He chuckles as he walks into the main area, kitchen on one side, living area on the other, both just beyond the short hallway that connects to the entrance. She stops in the hall, and Oliver stops just ahead of her, watching her step out of her shoes and throw her bag onto the small table with her keys. Her coat somehow makes it onto the rack, and then she's moving again.

"Sorry," she offers. "High heels and IT work aren't exactly friends." She motions to the couch. "Have a seat." She glances around the room for a moment because something about it feels different, and then she sees it. The sleek black printer definitely isn't hers, since her old one is now in a dumpster somewhere. "Oh!" she says in surprise, rushing over to it. She smiles when she sees the dark green bow—a decidedly store-bought one that you get for a dollar at the nearest supermarket—sitting on it. The Vigilante apparently has a sense of humor. There's no card or anything, but she knows the message he's trying to send: _I don't break my promises. Thank you._ Forgetting her visitor, she hugs it, squealing just a little—it's far nicer than the one she had before, and it's definitely a top-of-the-line piece of equipment. She hopes he didn't pay too much for it. Then she hopes he didn't steal it.

A light, breathy sound that could pass for laughter comes from the sofa. "Who's that from?" Oliver asks, his mouth turning down into a slight frown.

"Just a friend," Felicity replies, already feeling her cheeks heat in response. She chastises herself for being such a nerd. "He broke my printer a few weeks ago—the klutz knocked it off the stand—so he promised to buy me a new one." She feels guilty about lying to Oliver, but then she realizes that it's not really a lie—she did work out some aggression by smashing that printer to pieces before putting it in her trash. It was kind of fun, if she thought about it. She shrugs self-consciously, trying to find a way to change the subject. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"I'm fine, thank you," he replies from the couch, and it takes everything Felicity has not to agree with him. Instead, she goes and pours herself a glass of water, sipping on it as she returns to the living area. She sits it on the coffee table, only to find Oliver sitting in the exact same place the Vigilante had, only weeks prior. It strikes her as an odd contrast for a moment, but then she shakes her head.

"Do you mind if I let Saphira out? She's my dog, and she's been cooped up in the second bedroom all day." Something flickers across his expression, and she rushes on, "It's okay if dogs bother you. She can wait." But she probably can't—she can hear Saphira scratching at the door now that she knows Felicity is home.

"It's not a problem," he assures her with a lift of his mouth. "I'm intruding in your home, after all." It surprises her how gracious he is, then she goes down another hallway to the guest (or Saphira's) bedroom before he changes his mind.

Saphira stops to greet her before she rushes into the living area, with Felicity following close behind. The shiba practically jumps into Oliver's lap, wagging her tail like they're old friends. Oliver, mercifully, takes it all in stride, just stroking the dog in his lap gently. Then, tail still in motion, Saphira lets out an ear-piercing scream.

Oliver jumps at the same time as Felicity, and he immediately moves his hands away, looking at her in confusion. "I'm sorry, I don't know—"

Felicity cuts him off, shaking her head, equally bewildered. "It's okay—just a shiba scream. They tend to do it when they're upset, or, like now, when she's thrilled to see someone. She usually does that after I've spent some time with... family." She doesn't know how to explain it properly, so she just settles with the easy explanation; it's not exactly right, but it will work. "I don't know why she screamed at you, though. It's not like you've met before."

Oliver seems less concerned as he focuses his attention back on Saphira. "Maybe my laptop still smells like you," he offers, not looking at her now.

"Maybe," Felicity agrees, deciding to let the conversation slide as she plops down on the other side of him, picking up Saphira from his lap and placing her on the cushion on her right. "So, what's wrong with your computer?"

Oliver shrugs slightly. "I'm not sure," he admits. "I can't connect to the wi-fi at the house." He looks a little sheepish. "I didn't want to bother you because I don't understand computers, so I asked Thea." The name immediately brings to mind memories of Felicity's only enounter with the heiress, and she automatically smiles. "She couldn't fix it, either, so I guess I did have to bother you after all."

Felicity waves him off, taking the computer from the coffee table where he sat it. It starts up in seconds, and she turns it to Oliver once she sees the password entry screen. "I need your password, please," she offers, immediately turning her head the other direction.

He sounds amused when he responds, "Why? You built it—you could probably hack it, too." It's a funny tone in his voice; it sounds breathy like his almost-laugh, and Felicity finally understands the phrase "a smile in your voice."

"I probably could," she admits after a long moment, "but I like to use that as a last resort. Hacking is almost worse than home invasion. Hackers don't just walk away with your possessions—it's almost like they take or destroy your thoughts and ideas. _That's_ the worst kind of theft." She thinks about the hacking she does for the Vigilante, and then she reminds herself that's different—she's not doing it because she can, but to help stop crime. She likes to think of it as picking up where the law leaves off; the cops can't or won't help, so _somebody_ has to stop the criminals who keep their toes on the line separating legal and illegal.

"I've never thought about it that way before," Oliver admits, and then she can feel the laptop shift slightly. "It's all yours."

Felicity turns it back to him. "No it isn't," she says flatly. "Being able to connect to wi-fi is a crucial skill in this world, Oliver. I have wi-fi service here. Try to log into my network." She groans at her own statement, earning a questioning glance from Oliver. "And that just sounded like the world's cheesiest nerd pick-up line, but you know what I meant."

It's the first time she's actually seen a genuine smile on his face, as he chuckles under his breath. It's ridiculously unfair that he turns such a weapon on Felicity—like she could resist that level of God-given charm. "I did know what you meant," he agrees, bypassing her comment altogether. It's probably for the best, though.

Because he has one of those filters on the screen, she slides closer until she's able to see. Only then does she realize she's about two inches from being on his lap, and she's hanging over his left shoulder, her arm atop it. "Sorry," she says, about to completely back off because she's _way_ too close.

He immediately stops what he's doing to put a hand on the arm over his shoulder. "No, it's fine," he assures her, but then continues plugging along with the wi-fi connection.

Felicity guides him though the process gently, correcting him softly when he does something wrong. With Oliver at the helm and Felicity's password, he finally manages to make a successful Internet connection. When he does, she immediately moves from hanging over his shoulder, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, since he obviously doesn't like people touching him.

"Not bad for a beginner," she says in conclusion, smiling to show she's teasing. Oliver seems pretty pleased with himself, too, so she's glad she didn't turn him away. She knows he probably hasn't had enough to be happy about since he's been back.

He takes the compliment with surprising modesty. "Well, I learned from the best." He shifts, pulling an envelope from his pocket and handing it to her. At Felicity's questioning glance, he answers, "When I said I was going to see you, Walter asked if I could deliver this. It's Queen Consolidated business, I think."

She plucks the envelope from his hand, surprised to find a letter inside. Her first thought is that she's being fired, but then she thinks Walter would probably call her into the office to fire her—not send Oliver in her stead and ruin a budding friendship in the process. Her eyes widen as she reads it, and then she finally dares look at the attachment—a check in her name for ten thousand dollars. "Holy cheese," she mutters under her breath. "QC definitely knows how to do bonuses."

"Can I ask what it is?" Oliver questions with a partially concealed smile that makes her think he had something to do with this. Her eyes narrow in response.

"I just received my company bonus for the year," she replies, "for ten thousand dollars, which might now make me paid about what I'm worth." She points a finger at him with an accusatory glance. "You didn't have anything to do with this, did you? Because, while I do need the money, I'd like to think I earned my performance bonus based on, well, performance." She frowns. "And also because I don't want to feel like I owe you something."

"You earned every penny," he assures her. "All I did is deliver the envelope. But I would gladly pay you for building my laptop—and your help tonight—if you'd let me."

Felicity rolls her eyes. "Friends don't take money from friends," she informs him. "Employees perform services—friends do favors for one another." She taps his shoulder with the envelope when he frowns slightly. "But thanks for bringing this—and for offering. But I don't want your money."

He seems to think about that for a moment before saying reluctantly, "Well, I think I've interrupted your personal time enough for one night. Goodnight, Felicity." He starts to rise from his seat.

"Wait," she demands, putting her hand on his shoulder to stop him, then pulling away instantly as she thinks of how much he hates contact. "I haven't known you very long, but I do recognize when you're hesitating. Why did you _really_ come here?"

Oliver's mouth lifts a little, even though he sighs heavily. "The other night," he starts slowly, "you gave me some helpful advice." He hesitates, but Felicity already knows what he's going to say.

"And you would like to use me as your sounding board again," she finishes for him, to which he nods. She folds her legs under her better as she says, "I believe I told you to let me know when you need to talk to someone."

The reminder seems to bolster his confidence. "Since I've returned home, my mother and Walter—mostly my mother—have been trying to convince me to take over as CEO of Queen Consolidated." He pauses, waiting for her to respond.

She thinks about the first time they met for a moment and remembers that he told her he wasn't anyone's boss—and how his tone implied that he liked it that way. "And you don't want to say yes, but you don't want to disappoint your mother, either," she finishes for him. She understands completely—her childhood was filled with disapproving looks from her mother and other motherly figures.

His eyebrows rise, and Felicity thinks his surprise is insulting. "Exactly," he agrees. "I'm not interested in becoming my father. He knew I didn't want to join the company, and I'm tired of everyone pretending that I spent the last five years of my life finishing an MBA at an ivy league college instead of trying to survive a cold, unforgiving island." It's the first time he's ever described the island, and Felicity thinks he might be getting comfortable with her.

"It seems to me that everyone always has a plan for your life," she starts slowly, "but how about a better question. What would _you_ like to do with your life, Oliver?"

He hesitates. "I'd like to start a nightclub," he continues finally. "My dad's factory in the Glades is just rotting down, and it would be an excellent place for a business. And I don't know much—certainly not how to run an international corporation—but I _do_ know what makes a good place to party."

Felicity doesn't laugh, but she does smile. "Well, if you're planning on calling it 'Queen,'" she quips, "you might not like the clientele you get. But you could have Freddie Mercury posters on the wall." After he lets out a breathy sound that resembles a laugh, she continues, more seriously, "I think that if you want to start a club, you should do it. You don't have to be either of your parents to be successful—and, in my case, thank God for that." She doesn't let her thoughts wander too long before continuing, "Have you tried to tell them that?"

"I have," he responds. "But they won't listen."

Felicity shrugs. "Well, then, maybe you need to find another way to get through to them. Stop telling them you're not interested, and start _showing_ them instead. It may take a while, but eventually they'll get the message."

The response must spark something in Oliver because inspiration flashes in his eyes. "Thank you, Felicity." Then, softly and hesitant, "And I know you're not asking any questions about the island. I appreciate that."

The sincerity in his tone and the intense gazed fixed upon her makes her blush. "I don't want to pry into something that is so obviously none of my business," she explains. "I'm sure that whatever happened was traumatic and horrible, and if you don't want to talk about it, neither do I." She hesitates. "But, on the other hand, if you ever want to talk to someone about it, I promise to just listen."

He doesn't respond this time, but just nods. "I'll leave you to your evening then, Felicity." He rises from his seat, and Felicity follows him as he moves toward the door. He turns before he leaves, offering her a charming smile. "Goodnight." He's gone before Felicity can respond, and she's still reeling by his presence.

And, for the second time that night, she can't help but think that smile will be the death of her.

* * *

When the first person she sees is Laurel Lance, Felicity feels the need to turn on the spot and walk away. Despite how she feels, she keeps walking because this isn't about Felicity or Laurel—this is about Oliver and being there for him. She takes a deep breath and charges forward into the crowd gathered at the site of the new Robert Queen Memorial Applied Sciences building.

She wonders where Oliver is—he asked her to be here, yet he's nowhere in sight. Apparently he doesn't sleep, because the text woke her up at three in the morning (she always forgets to turn her phone on silent). All the message said was that he wanted her to be at the dedication of the building. She informed him that employees didn't get a day off for the occasion, and his response had simply been, _I'll take care of that_, and she found an invitation to the ceremony on her desk the next morning—along with a letter signed by Walter Steele approving her absence from work. Her boss had been a little baffled by the quick turnaround and short notice, but he didn't dare question his employer.

Because she's focused on avoiding Laurel, she accidentally bumps into someone, and she loses her balance. He catches her easily, and she finds herself looking at none other than Tommy Merlyn. "Hey, Smoaky," he greets as he releases her. "I'm no stranger to girls falling over me, but you're the first one to do it literally."

Nerves already frazzled, she frowns. "Dream on, Merlyn. You are _so_ not my type," is her response, and she instantly thinks it comes off too harsh. She's about to apologize when he actually laughs, and she frowns in confusion.

"Now I see why Ollie likes you so much," is his not-so-helpful explanation. Before she can ask what he means by that, Tommy adds, "After that party went downhill a few weeks ago, I asked him if you needed a ride home after all the chaos, and I thought he was going to strangle me." Almost thoughtfully, he adds, "And, Ollie's _never_ done that over a girl before."

Felicity turns crimson, but covers it with irritation. "You guys do realize that most women don't find overprotectiveness attractive, right?" She huffs. "Frankly, it's just demeaning."

He chuckles about the time that Laurel comes up to them. He puts his arm around the lawyer instantly, smiling. "Hey, Laurel, this is a friend of Ollie's—her name is Felicity Smoak." Felicity is surprised he even remembers her first name—he hasn't called her anything but "Smoaky" since they met. "Smoaky, this lovely lady is Laurel Lance, Starling's best lawyer and an old friend."

Felicity does an awkward wave before saying, "We've met, actually." She doesn't expound and Laurel doesn't talk—though she does manage to keep a poker face.

Sensing the tension, Tommy asks, "So, not to be rude, but what are you doing here, anyway?" The question is clearly aimed at Felicity.

She shrugs. "I have absolutely no clue," she replies honestly. "Oliver asked me to be here, so I came." She rolls her eyes. "He didn't say why, though—cryptic as ever." She looks around at the gathering of people. "And of course he's not here."

"I think he's going to be announced as taking over Walter's position as CEO," Laurel chimes in for the first time. "He told me about it the last time I talked to him."

Felicity doesn't say anything because she doesn't want to be rude—or worse, start a catfight—and mercifully Walter starts his announcement. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," he begins as members of the press start snapping photographs. "Thank you for coming today. We're here to announce that construction on the new Robert Queen Memorial Applied Sciences building is complete." There's a smattering of applause before he continues, "Our first order of business is to start research on—"

"We all know that's not why we're _really_ here," a voice calls from the back, and Felicity freezes as she recognizes it, long before the collective gasp of the crowd and the shutters on cameras start clicking. She wonders what the hell he's thinking—and what stunt he's going to pull—because she knows _exactly_ what he's doing.

Everyone turns at once to stare at Oliver, who casually picks a flute of champagne from a waitress' tray and taking a sip before putting it back. Then he walks casually through the crowd, weaving his way slowly. He walks right by Felicity, and she doesn't expect him to register her presence, but he does. His arm brushes hers intentionally, and he offers her a wink before walking forward. A sense of dread washes over her; after all, the last time he winked at her he was wrongfully arrested for being the Vigilante.

When he finally reaches the podium, he argues with Walter for a moment before speaking into the microphone. "Hello everyone," he says cheerfully, but Felicity wonders if anyone else notices the tense set of his shoulders or the fact that his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm not sure if you know me, but my name is Oliver Queen." He sounds every bit like the man they all expect him to be—that pompous, arrogant ass Felicity was expecting that first day. Though she doesn't like the way he's portraying himself, she does understand why he has to put on the reckless-heir-to-a-fortune mask. "The reason Mr. Steele called you all here was so he could announce that he and my mother want me to take my father's place as CEO of Queen Consolidated." As soon as he finishes, more shutters start clicking away, and he has to hold up his hands for silence before the applause dies down.

"It's a nice position," he continues casually, "and I think it's a position meant for responsible leadership and dedicated, driven men and women." He chuckles, but it's completely fake. "And if you know me, you know that's not really my forte." He turns back toward his mother and Walter. "So, Mom, thanks for the offer—but no thanks. My father was an excellent executive, but I'm not my father—no matter how much I wish I was more like him." A pain-stricken look flickers across his face before he delivers his final statement: "Quit asking me to be—because I'll never measure up." With that, he ignores the flashes of cameras as he walks off the stage and disappears into the crowd with the practice of someone familiar with ducking the paparazzi. All is silent for a long moment.

Felicity is the one to start the slow clap.


	9. Digital Photography Analysis

**Chapter: 9 - Digital Photography Analysis  
Word Count: 3206**

Notes: Okay, it's Thursday again! :) So here, have a new chapter of _Technical Assistance_. I apologize in advance for what I'm going to do to you in this one. I know you won't like the ending, and I don't really like this bonus story. I think I might have failed this city. :P I'll let you make your own conclusions, though. Reviews and comments are the best way to do that, but thank you for reading anyway. :)

Also, I apologize because I've been so slow to respond to reviews, comments, PMs, etc. It's been a very busy week for me, and I just haven't been responding the way I should. However, I plan to do that while watching _Doctor Who_ after I get this posted, so don't give up on me! :)

**Also, you might consider reading "Criminal Data Analysis" before this one, if you haven't already.** It was posted over the long weekend, and it takes place before this chapter. Just wanted to let you know that went up. :)

* * *

Felicity sits by her window, finally starting to get antsy after waiting for several hours. It's the first time she's actually _waited_ for the Vigilante to show up by her open window, but it's also the first time she called him. He let her know how to contact him a few days ago, returning her sticky note with his own number written across it. She immediately plugged the number in her phone, though she never thought she'd use it.

Then all hell broke loose earlier in the day. Felicity saw the news on the Internet—apparently someone attempted to kill Moira Queen. After dialing Oliver to make sure his mother was all right, she returned to the SCPD database to check some information. She gathered all she could, then called the Vigilante. She expected him to turn her down—especially when she mentioned Oliver and made the stipulation that no one was to be killed—but, surprisingly, he agreed.

She continues to keep exhaustion from overtaking her; there have been several days of long work hours, and the sleep-deprivation is starting to catch up with her. She doesn't have any more coffee in her apartment, and staying awake is proving impossible. After a few more moments, she ends up losing the fight.

When she awakens, it's to a gentle, leather-clad glove on her shoulder, shaking her gently. "Felicity," he says sharply, in that synthesized voice. She opens her eyes to find him closer than she expects—_too_ close. She can see the mask over his eyes and the dark irises underneath, the color still hidden by the dark room. Startled, she immediately scrambles backward, tripping over a lamp.

She waits as both her and the inanimate object fall to the ground, but it doesn't come. The Vigilante darts out at alarming speed, catching the lamp with one hand before steadying her with a hand on her elbow. The leather glove feels cold but soft against the skin of her arm, and his grip is both firm and oddly gentle, as though he's concerned about hurting her. He sits the lamp firmly on the ground again, helps her into a solid standing position, both hands on her elbows.

"Are you all right?" he asks carefully as he releases her. His eyes are piercing—and oddly familiar. She can't understand why, but then she shakes her head and remembers adrenalin is coursing through her veins and she's sleep-deprived. Maybe she needs to calm down.

"Yeah," she assures him, rubbing her forehead with her palm, willing her heartbeat to slow down. "It's just usually that I wake up to a cup of coffee and a mouthful of Saphira's fur, not a vigilante." She shakes her head. "Sorry."

"I didn't mean to startle you," he responds, and she thinks it's as close to an apology as she's going to get. Speaking of Saphira makes her curious, and she sees the dog sitting at the Arrow's heels, nose in the air and tail wagging furiously. She paws at him once, screaming to get his attention. Surprisingly, he doesn't balk at the shrill sound; instead, he reaches down and pets her on the head, then reaches into his pocket and palms her some sort of treat.

Felicity shakes her head, but it makes her a little dizzy, so she stops immediately. "Okay," she says, holding her hands out in an I'm-done gesture, "the _Vigilante_ is feeding my dog treats and stopping me from falling on my ass. Clearly I've stepped into some weird, parallel universe, and hopefully when I wake up it will be back to normal again." She frowns as the feeling gnaws at her. "Should I check the sky for a fleet of zeppelins, or do I just need to wait for the army of Cybermen to show up at my door?"

"_What?_" he asks her, tilting his head to the side as his mouth turns into a confused frown. He looks adorable like that, she can't help but think, but then she remembers he's _the Vigilante_, and she should in no situation find him adorable. She doesn't see him as a killer, sure, but that doesn't change the fact that he's dangerous and that people around him tend to turn up dead.

She shakes her head. "Never mind," she assures him. "The bottom line of that is I'm a nerd who likes to make references to fifty-year-old British television shows and that this doesn't seem like real life anymore. It doesn't matter." Then she remembers why she called him to her apartment in the first place. "Come with me—I have something to show you."

She charges into her living area, and both the Vigilante and Saphira follow her. He sits down on his end of the couch, and somehow ends up with the twenty-pound shiba inu on his lap. Felicity picks up the laptop with her carefully organized information, and the Vigilante shifts Saphira on the other side of him, taking up one couch cushion and part of another. Felicity flops next to him as she opens the laptop, opening to the picture she found of the assassin flying down the road—headed East, as Oliver had said—running a red light at a ludicrously high speed. She practically sits the laptop on his lap, her leg brushing his as she points to the blurred photograph. "This is what I have on our shooter," she informs him. "It's a pretty rough photograph, but I was able to edit it so that we could get a better picture of who it was."

"Who is he?" the Arrow asks, and his confidence in her is overwhelming for a moment. He doesn't know her all that well, yet his faith in her is so solidified—and it shouldn't be. She doesn't trust him, and he should most certainly _not_ trust her.

"He is a _she_," she corrects as she shows the modified image, and that leather jacket clings to every curve. "I traced her back to a warehouse on Eighth, where an ATM camera found _her_"—she points to the next photograph, one of a woman with black hair—"exiting the same building a few hours later." She pulls up the result from the facial recognition program she borrowed from Homeland Security. "This is Helena Bertinelli—heir to the Bertinelli crime family. The guy Moira Queen was meeting with worked for the Bertinellis—wanted to talk about building contracts for the new Applied Sciences Division of QC." She chuckles humorlessly, but then it turns into a jaw-splitting yawn. "There have been several other reports," she continues drowsily, "all of them affecting the Bertinellis in some way. I don't think Moira was the target. I think Helena is trying to sabotage her father's business."

Another yawn courses through her, and sleep starts to coat her eyes. She leans back against the couch, and the Vigilante says in his deep voice, "It must have taken a lot of work to come to that conclusion," he says slowly, his tone different, even under the synthesizer. "Oliver Queen is lucky to have you in his life."

She blinks twice at the compliment, turning her head toward him, though she still lay against the sofa. He's turned away from her, facing forward, and all she can see his the firm line of his mouth and the sharp contour of his jaw. "I know you don't like him," she says suddenly, and he turns toward her with that tilt to his head again. "I can tell by the way you talk about him. You say I don't know Oliver, and you probably think I'm just another stupid girl under his spell, but you're wrong." She takes a deep breath, and it feels like it takes a Herculean effort to lift her head. "I think he's troubled, confused, and no longer the man everyone thinks he's supposed to be. Everyone he knows either wants him to be the person he was before—or they want him to tell them about his five years in his own personal Hell." She shakes her head. "But no one stops to think about what _he's_ going through. He's not perfect—and I don't expect him to be." She sighs. "But he needs someone to listen, and I think I might have volunteered for the job."

She expects disapproval to answer the statement, but instead he says to her, as if weighing every word, "He doesn't deserve you." Felicity waits for more, but he doesn't continue, but he does turn his head up, and she's able to see those indecipherable eyes again.

"Neither do you," she says flatly, causing him to frown. But of course he doesn't let her finish before coming to the wrong conclusion. She continues anyway, with a hesitant nudge to his shoulder, "But somehow you both got me anyway." The corners of his mouth turn up then, and she's about to goad him again when another yawn tears through her. "Sorry, I'm apparently too tired to tell you about my wonderful qualities."

"And we were just beginning to talk about your modesty," is the Arrow's sarcastic reply, but Felicity's cell phone starts ringing with the quirky, synthesized theme to her favorite TV show—and she reminds herself that she really needs to change it. But, still, she knows who's calling.

"I probably need to get that," she informs him, and he waves a hand casually as if to say, _By all means_. She picks up the phone and answers it, all the while focusing her eyes on the Arrow. "You do realize I've been working twelve-hour days—and that I've been taking my work home with me after that, right?" is her greeting.

"Oh, I'm doing great, thanks for asking," comes the chipper-yet-sarcastic reply. "It's nice to hear your voice, too, Sherly." He's the only person in the world who calls her that; it comes from long hours spent in front of the television watching mystery shows. She would almost always figure out the culprit, so he started calling her "Sherlock," and it just stuck over the years. "So are you going to ask why I'm calling or not?"

She sighs. "On a scale of one to ten, how important is this, Watson?" she asks, using his nickname, since he was always the Watson to her Sherlock. She'd solve the TV mystery, and then spend the remainder of the show explaining it to him. "And don't exaggerate—we both know you can be a drama queen."

He huffs. "First of all, that's just rude—and I know you'll apologize later for hurting my feelings. Second of all, it's about a four and it can wait. But only because I love you so much."

"Love you, too, you jerk," is her reply, and the Arrow shoots her a curious glance but, mercifully, doesn't say anything. "I'll call you first thing in the morning—well, after I get my coffee—and we'll talk about it."

"I'm playing second fiddle to coffee now? I see how it is," he teases, feigning hurt. She's known him long enough that she can hear the teasing tone underneath and she's grateful for the normalcy, even as the Vigilante sits on her couch. "Talk to you in the morning, then, Sherly."

"Goodnight," she responds, before terminating the call. The Arrow stares at her oddly for a moment before she finally feels self-conscious to ask, "What? Did you really think my social life consists of meeting you to stop bad guys at dark-thirty and Doctor Who marathons?" She holds up a hand, shaking her head. "Never mind. I don't want to know the answer to that."

"Thank you for the information," is his reply as he sidesteps her rant altogether. "I'll let you know when I've found something." He rises from the couch in a single, lithe movement. Another yawn is her response, and he frowns before saying, "I can lock up as I leave. You look like you need some rest."

The Arrow's surprisingly nice offer reminds her of the printer, and how he must have come and gone earlier despite her locks and security measures. "Oh, before I forget," she starts, "I saw my printer the other night. I meant to say thank you, but I haven't talked to you in a while." She usually hugs people for presents to show her appreciation, but somehow, hugging the Vigilante doesn't seem like the wisest decision. She hesitates before extending her hand for him to shake. "So, thank you."

He's uncertain about the arrangement, too, and he falters before shaking her hand firmly. The leather glove feels odd in her hand, but it's not as awkward an arrangement as Felicity was prepared for. "Anything for you," he promises, and it scares her how serious it is. "I'll show myself out."

She accepts, but she tells herself it's only because she's so exhausted. "Sure," she says finally, "but only because I'm so tired." She sighs as she collapses onto her bed. "And make sure you lock my window. I don't want anyone creeping in except for you."

He smiles slightly before putting a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of trust. "Goodnight, Felicity."

"Goodnight and happy hunting," she replies. She hears a chuckle and then he's gone. She's not far behind him, but her travel is into sleep rather than the night.

* * *

Oliver awakens, and it takes him a long moment to remember where he is and how he got there. He recognizes the warehouse as Helena's—the very one she stores her weaponry in—and the black mass of hair on the pillow next to him as Helena's, too.

He can't believe things escalated so fast; a few hours ago, he was intent on throwing her to the cops. (Truth be told, he'd much rather have put arrows in her, but Felicity had convinced him otherwise. And then he had ended up on a dinner date with her, and things had taken a turn for the unusual. Frank Bertinelli had insisted Oliver and Helena discuss business over dinner, and they had traveled to a nice Italian restaurant under the Bertinellis' control. They had disliked each other at first, but then Helena finally started speaking to him openly.

"No one deserves what you've been through," she said to him abruptly, playing with the cross around her neck—an ironic touch, Oliver had originally thought. "It was your crucible." She holds up the necklace. "This was given to me by my fiancé." Her mouth became a hard line. "He died. Michael was my crucible." She seems contemplative now, really focusing on what she's saying. "It changes you, living through something like that. Everyone expects you to be the person you were before, but you've already forgotten who that is. You don't just become someone else—you become _something_ else."

For once, Oliver felt like someone truly understood his plight. His mother and sister aren't ready to hear the truth, so he can't tell them. Diggle could handle the truth, but he and Oliver just simply don't connect on that level. Felicity, the closest to understanding, sympathizes, but Oliver knows she'll never quite understand what he's been through. Helena, though—Helena is forged of the same battles he's fought, and she knows how he feels because she's _lived_ it. And suddenly, the stranger he sat down to dinner with is now a friend, a comrade in the same plight.

Like all good things, however, it ends. The dinner ends violently, and they both find themselves at Nick Salvati's mercy. As enforcer for the Bertinelli crime family, he's the one who ends up doing their dirty work. Salvati, however, is the one to reveal that Helena tried to gather evidence against her father—not Michael, who was killed for it—and accuses Oliver of being the one she's selling information to.

Before anything could happen, though, Oliver was able to break out of his zip-tie-handcuffs and stop them. Helena's skill was with a gun, so she wasn't of much use until she squirmed out of her own handcuffs and Oliver threw her a gun. His intention was to incapacitate, but it seemed that Helena had a new plan. Once the firefight was over, he heard her fire into a half-conscious Nick Salvati. "No one can know my secret," she said to Oliver as explanation then, her expression merciless.

It was then that he understood. It was then that he recognized that Helena Bertinelli is just as damaged and lost as Oliver was when he first returned from the island. They had both survived their respective trials, only for it to warp and twist them into angry, cold people. But, while he had Felicity to suggest a different way, Helena had no one. It was in that moment that he decided he would be her light in the darkness, the person that guided her to become not a merciless killer, but to seek her revenge in a much different way.

He has to admit that there is no attraction other than companionship with Helena. He doesn't love her—nor does he think that will ever happen—but he _can_ help her. He can guide her, train her—and the two of them would be perfectly unstoppable. As a bonus, there's that familiar air of companionship between them, that shared experience of losing everything you've ever known and being forced to start all over again. The understand each other on a deeper level—one where chemistry doesn't quite matter.

As if sensing the direction his thoughts are heading, she stirs in her sleep, turning over abruptly and facing him. She frowns slightly, but it's in confusion. "I was sure you'd be gone by now," she remarks dryly, lazily, her tone far too casual for the scenario. But the Oliver Queen that survived solely on one-night stands died five years ago on an island in the North China Sea.

He sidesteps her almost-question. "I was thinking we could stop your father together—without allowing innocent people to get hurt."

Her frown isn't in confusion this time. "That's not how I do business," she says sharply. "My father took everything from me, Oliver, and I want him to pay for that."

"And he will," Oliver assures her gently, "but innocent people shouldn't have to pay for that, too." He hesitates. "I used to think that killing was the only way, too, but someone showed me the light. Maybe I can do the same for you."

It's clear she doesn't like the idea, but she responds finally, "Fine, we'll try it your way. For now." The hesitation there is clear, but it dissipates completely when she asks, "So is this a relationship or not? I'm perfectly fine with casual sex—I just need to know what to expect."

"This is a relationship," Oliver assures her, surprised when he doesn't sound terrified. "I didn't end up here because it was convenient, Helena." Sensing her doubt, he continues, "I promise never to hurt you."

"I'm going to hold you to that," is her reply, and then she presses her lips to his. Of course the kiss develops into something more—something similar to the night before.


End file.
